Fathers and Heroes
by Tanyk
Summary: Sam Winchester is an accountant who shares an apartment and his life with one of his darkest demons. High school quarterback Dean Smith is on the run from his. Dean's coach has a party and although Sam is only there for five minutes, the kid makes The Guy his mission, even at the risk of getting in trouble. When he finally gets what he wants, he discovers it's not what he expected
1. Chapter 1

SAM WINCHESTER

FRIDAY

' _Here we go_ ,' Sam groans to himself. Even before he opens his eyes, a wave of nausea swells, sour, in his mouth. A bass drum pounds at his right temple. This is nothing new; it's the story of his life. A migraine and his penis in someone else's hand, like most mornings.

He half-heartedly argues, but soon finds his own hand pressed hard enough into the small of a back to leave a wide, pink print in the expanse of pale flesh. The fingers of his other hand curl around a sharp hipbone. Sweat burns Sam's eyes. It drips thick from the edge of his nose and slides salty between his lips.

A hoarse voice barks from beneath him. "Harder, Sam. Harder. God damn it, fuck me harder. Oh my God. Yeah. That's my big boy. Like a … unh. Like an animal."

Sam's mind shuts off. Teeth grit. Hips pound like pistons. He fucks like a pet machine.

"Oh, yeah. Make me pay. Make me pay, baby. Give it to me, Sam."

His eyes squeeze tight. "I'm gonna come."

The body below him pulls away. Sam shudders at the loss and grabs the base of his cock. Denim blue eyes peer up at him. Castiel's lips wrap around the head of his cock. Expert fingers knead Sam's sac as Cas greedily drinks him down. Sam whimpers. He molds into the touch like putty.

Then, it's over.

The pleasure declines too quickly. It leaves his head spinning. His insides churn noisily, all queasy-hollow. Sam's heart beats too fast. Bile still coats his tongue. For a moment, panic overtakes him. ' _Am I going to throw up? Oh god. I'm going to throw up. All over the bed.'_

By some minor mercy, he doesn't, though. He slumps forward on trembling, weak hands and knees. ' _Like a whipped slave.'_ Sam sniffs loudly. He wipes the mucus and sweat from his burning hot face with the back of his arm. He drops himself heavily, breath still labored.

Castiel rolls his eyes and jerks the pillow from underneath Sam's head to cover his erection, flushed what must be a painful purple. "You know how much I hate it when you stare."

Sam mutters a worn apology.

Eventually, Castiel twists his body around him, constrictor close. Sam's skin crawls as cold fingers draw patterns on his chest. He imagines himself pushing away, rolling aside, covering up, running, yelling, crying. In reality, he just lays there, staring up at nothing while Castiel toys with him. "You still love me? You love me, don't you? You're not still angry at me, are you, baby?"

Castiel purrs like a house cat, but he is feral and savage. He can and does bite.

Sam lays motionless, hands limp at his side like cornered prey, his eyes fix on the ceiling fan. "No."

"Of course you're not." Cas teases over the tip of a long, jagged scar that licks around from the back of Sam's thighs.

Those ugly, old wounds are behind him, both figuratively and literally. Sam easily forgets about them until moments like these, when Castiel reminds him. "My naughty boy. You must have been so bad. Bad like me, when you were little. Wish I had known you back then. You're too good, now. Too good, Sam."

The way he strokes is cruel in its gentle relentlessness, like Chinese water torture. Cas leans on his elbow and gazes into Sam's face with a devilish grin that fades with the timing of a stage performer. "He didn't mean anything to me, you know?"

"I know." Sam sits up. He tosses his unsteady legs over the edge of the bed.

The drummer in Sam's head is doing a bebop solo now. He pours four of the extra strength Tylenol he keeps on the bedside table into his palm. He downs them dry and gets up to go to work.

DEAN SMITH

FRIDAY

Dean's eyes rove around the office. It's about the size of a broom closet. No windows.

Probably never been aired out, which would explain why it reeks. Smells like every sweaty kid that ever sat in conference left behind his dirty socks and armpit odor. On the other side of the white cinder block wall, he can make out the muffled laughter and clanging of locker doors.

New school, same routine. Story of his life. Dean has been in more schools than he has fingers and toes. You go in. Do what you got to. Keep your head down. Don't get attached. Don't let anybody get attached to you. Easy.

Dean deliberately straightens his spine and rests his right ankle over his left knee. Left arm

draped along the thigh. Right elbow on right knee. Chin poised thoughtfully in right hand. Face

muscles relaxed, but engaged. This is _'_ _s_ third position to "convey confidence and command control." In quick succession, he unfolds himself and tries out position four, then five, before he settles for the classic slouch. At least he had nailed the handshake.

The old man sits back in his chair and clasps hairy knuckles over that little bit of paunch that seems to plague all guys over 40. Dean makes a mental note to do sit-ups every day for the rest of his life. There's a scuffed up name plate on the desk: Coach John Winchester.

"So, let me get this straight, son. You want to play ball, but you don't want anybody to know about it."

Son. ' _There it is.'_ Dean doesn't say anything about it. He crosses his arms tight against his chest. He needs the coach to take this seriously. This is his only condition, but it's non-negotiable. "I just can't be in the papers."

"You do realize that the local paper writes something about high school ball every week. You're saying I should ask them not to include any articles that feature my new starting quarterback?" The coach's eyebrows raise as he waits for an answer.

Dean sits up straight again. He swallows, despite his dry mouth. "They can write whatever they want, as long as they don't use my name."

Coach Winchester's whistle taps against the edge of the desk when he sits forward. He rests his elbows there and clasps his meaty hands in front of him. "You in some kind of trouble, son?"

 _'There it is again.'_ Dean does his best to just ignore it. He's had enough men who aren't his father call him 'son' over the years to know that it's an entitlement old men feel.

Or it's something else.

The coach is not bad-looking and his players seem to respect him. Dean hasn't decided yet. He's not sure how he'll react if all this paternal attention morphs into something else. He's been down that road enough; he'll know when it's coming and then decide whether he rolls with it or knees the guy in the balls.

Dean Smith only gets fucked on his own terms.

No matter their intentions, these men don't seem to give a shit that words like 'daddy,' 'father' and 'son' are like a loaded gun pointed right at their temples. Dean has freaked out enough over those words over the years that he's finally able to just let them slide down his back like water off a duck. He looks right into the coach's dark eyes and lies. "No."

"No, sir." The coach corrects.

Dean's eyes narrow. Then, he lets them land on the shelves of trophies in the glass case behind the coach. "No, sir."

"Mmhm." The old man flicks a thumb over his shoulder. "You ever earn one of those?"

Dean shakes head. He slumps down in the steel chair again. "Don't stay anywhere long enough for that. Like I said: probably be gone again before spring."

"You know, son, I haven't seen the caliber of tryout you gave in a long time. You keep giving me your A-game and I will make sure you remain anonymous. There anything else you need?"

"No, sir." That was all Dean needed to hear.

He stands to shake the man's hand and get the fuck out of his claustrophobic office. On his way out of the door, the coach calls after him, "By the way, Mr. Smith. My daughter informs me that you had the honor of being her first kiss."

Dean's entire body goes stiff as a board as he freezes in the door well.

 _Daughter? First? Honor? What? The? Fuck?_

"I only got one rule for the boy who dates my little girl: You make her cry, I make you cry."

Dean Smith has banged more than his fair share of eager girls all around these great United States. That being the case, he maintains a strict 'no virgins' policy. It's a long story that he doesn't tell.

He glances around to make sure he doesn't have an audience before he creeps under the bleachers in the otherwise abandoned gymnasium. He cocks his head at the heavenly sight of a tight ass in tight jeans. Jo even brought a picnic blanket and is on her belly, reading. He had considered not showing up at all. Standing them up sends a clear message. But this is situation has just become delicate.

She smiles up over her shoulder before sitting upright to face him. Dean groans at her strawberry pink lips and soft, cornsilk hair. As she leans toward him, he raises an accusing finger in her adorable face. "You're the coach's kid?"

"So?"

"Why aren't you a cheerleader?" That wasn't what he meant to say.

She has the looks and the body. Even if she wasn't any good at it, her father is all the connection she needs.

Jo frowns, "My dad says people make assumptions about cheerleaders."

' _He's not wrong.'_

"I'm in the band."

"And you told him about …" Dean flicks that same incriminating finger back and forth between them.

"I tell my dad everything."

He puts another few inches between himself and that buttermilk skin. "That's not normal."

Jo folds the corner of her page and closes the book. "He's not as scary as he seems."

"He seems like ex-military?"

She nods, exchanging the book for something that crinkles from her backpack. "Marines."

"I'm assuming he owns weapons."

"Everyone around here does." Jo opens the package and offers Dean a Twinkie.

He flinches away from the snack cake like it's of the Devil. "How is that not scary?"

She takes a dainty little nibble and he can _smell_ the damn thing. All that high fructose corn-syrupy goodness whistling at his nostrils like a siren singing 'Enter Sandman.'

"He really likes you. Or your arm, but it's kind of the same thing with my dad. He's happy we're dating. He told my mom that watching you play was like being alive for the second coming."

Dean ignores the compliment. Bigger fish.

Jo is licking creamy filling from her lips. The worst part? This girl doesn't even know what she's doing. The blood rushes from his brain directly to his boxers. He takes a deep breath and wills himself to look away from her.

That gives his mind at chance for a quick replay. " Wait. Are we dating?"

"You're so silly." Jo laughs and presents the second delicious vending machine pastry.

Dean narrows his eyes at it. For the first time, he feels genuine sympathy for Adam's dilemma.

And that chick only had an apple.

"It's fine. I swear. I already told him that I would invite you to his birthday party." Jo is still holding out the golden sponge cake, waiting for him to take it.

"You told him I was coming?"

"I told him I would ask you." Her head tilts to the side, real cute. She's asking.

Dean's fingers twitch with the temptation to brush her hair back over her shoulder. "So, in other words, if I say no, you gotta go back and tell your dad I turned you down?"

She just shrugs, as if she hadn't thought of that.

Dean snatches the Twinkie from her hand and stuffs the whole damn thing into his mouth. "Awesome."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean would never have believed that it was possible to be so completely bored at something that was supposed to be a party. He fills his time by gawking at what he can see of the coach's huge house. He doesn't know the first thing about furniture and decor, but everything looks like it is worth more than he is. His hands are playing with the lint in his pockets to keep himself from touching something he can't possibly replace. Hell, they're entertaining in the 'parlor.' The only kind of parlor he's ever been in before is of the ice cream variety.

Jo had managed to scare up a clean white shirt and a tie for him. He's got on that and the least worn out pair of jeans he owns and his black chucks.

The Winchester's parlor is filled with cigar smoke and the rumbling, deep laughter of half drunk old guys. Dean had expected the rest of the team to be there, but he and Jo are the only kids in the house, and she spends most of the time in the kitchen with her mother. Those two are the only females, both of them in snow white dresses and open-toed shoes.

The coach places his tumbler of whiskey on the table beside his antique sofa so that he can use both hands to tell his next story. "Where is Dean? Get over here, boy."

Until that moment, Dean had been carefully tucked into a corner behind a burly thirty-something. He laughs at every damn thing Winchester said, funny or not. This is Dean's first birthday party, but he supposes that is what people are supposed to do; kiss the birthday guy's butt.

When the coach calls him, Dean's mouth is full of the first bite of his third slice of super rich chocolate cake. Jo's mother had dropped it onto his plate and he has never been one to turn down cake. Or any food, for that matter. The fancy silver fork clanks against the fine china. He puts them both down and dutifully takes the coach's side.

The alcohol is pretty rank on the old man's breath. He's overdone it with the cologne, too. Dean coughs as the coach drapes a heavy arm over his shoulder and starts telling this war story about how he had to lean on some guy after an explosion or something like that. Dean plays the part of Some Guy. Judging by the rapt faces of Winchester's guests, the tale is gruesome and hilarious. Dean isn't really listening.

His mind is occupied with how and when he can get the hell out of here.

Jo and her mother look like the Golden Goose and the Golden Gosling. Dean would put money down that Mary Winchester was a sweet little virgin when the coach first got his hands on her; she has that 'only one man for me' look. The expression on Jo's face is all adoration for her dad or Dean or both.

That is when he sees him.

On the other side of Jo's mother there is a tall man with both hands stuffed in the pockets of his dark jeans. A blaze surges through him. i' _Who the fuck is that?'/i_

All eyes are on the coach, except for Dean's. He is staring at This Guy like he's getting paid to do it. They're dressed the same, with a few minor differences. Jo had given Dean a green necktie and made some comment about his eyes. This Guy's tie is blue. Also, his jeans are not falling apart at the seams. His shoes are the kind that need polish and shine.

He looks damn good in his clothes, but Dean is way more interested in what lies beneath: broad shoulders, strong arms, slender hips and legs that won't quit. He's got one hell of a handsome face, too. Wavy brown hair just the right side of too long. Damn near six and a half feet of fun.

"Mary, bring the boy a bourbon," the coach bellows in his ear without bothering to face his wife.

He squeezes Dean in closer. Dean wills himself not to shove the old man away. He treats himself to another extended tour of the tall guy, who is left standing with Jo when Mrs. Winchester disappears behind the bar.

"Don't you tell a soul I let you drink."

One sniff and Dean immediately knows it is stronger and of a better quality than anything he's ever had before.

One of the men whispers to the coach, who is still leaning on Dean's shoulder. The old man's back stiffens. The coach glances slightly over his shoulder, directly at The Guy. Then, he nudges Dean to drink up. He starts telling a new story, as if he hasn't seen The Guy at all.

Of course, Sam sees him. He is quite sure that no one ever fails to notice that boy's face. It's pretty difficult to overlook when someone is giving you the kind of undressing Sam is receiving.

He also notices the arm slung over the kid's shoulder. Sam knows what it feels like to be favored, but it's been a long time. He intentionally avoids the young man's eyes.

He leans down to give Jo a hug. She reaches up and slings an arm around his neck before deciding that lower would be better. He fumbles, too, unsure of how tightly to squeeze the petite girl. He doesn't know how to hug his own little sister anymore.

He whispers an apology to his mother. She rests a hand on his arm. Sam kisses her cheek and makes a beeline for the door.

Even with the brisk steps he takes between the tidy rhododendrons, he hasn't made it down the walkway when the front door opens behind him. He turns, expecting to see his mother or his sister, but certainly not that kid, his father's new pet, leering back at him.

"Hey, I'm Dean … Smith."

Sam shifts on his feet, uneasy under the weight of Dean's attention. The kid is not remotely subtle about letting his gaze take a slow trip along the length of Sam's body yet again. Sam purses his lips and shakes the warm hand thrust out at him. "Sam. Winchester."

The boy's mossy, clear eyes pop wide. "Winchester? As in … You related to Coach or something?"

"Or something." Sam attempts a curt smile that shrivels before it can reach his lips. "Well, bye, Dean."

The kid stands there and watches Sam fold himself into his car. He drives off and does not look back.

Sam quietly shuts the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and tries to peer through the darkness. He whispers, not wanting to wake Cas, if he's asleep. No reply is forthcoming. He steps into the living room and flips on the light. His breath halts for a moment as he surveys the carnage; his hand flies up to cover his gaping mouth.

The glass coffee table is in large shards. The handmade clay vase that had served as a centerpiece is in pieces as well; the two have obviously been used to destroy one another. Purple and orange rose petals are strewn all around the jagged bits. It occurs to Sam that someone could call this a work of art. Of course, the installment would have to include the bloody footprints that lead across the eggshell carpet and onto the balcony. They could entitle the piece 'Fury.'

Castiel is perfectly visible through the glass door. He is gazing down at the parking lot with a half-empty bottle in one hand. There isn't a stitch of clothing on his milk-white body other than a pair of black calf socks. This man is a similarly disturbing masterpiece. Sam hasn't worked out a title for that exhibit yet. Nothing seems adequate.

Sam grabs the grey cashmere blanket from the back of the black, Italian leather sofa that Cas picked out when they'd moved in. Practically everything in the apartment- the blanket, the sofa, the demolished table and vase, all reflect Castiel's taste and Sam's money.

Sam steps up behind his shivering, naked lunatic of a boyfriend and attempts to wrap the blanket around him. "Come on. It's cold."

Castiel spins gracefully before Sam's arms close. He yanks the cover out of Sam's hands and drops it over the railing. Sam watches it flutter prettily through the air, eleven stories to the ground.

"Don't you fucking touch me." Cas storms into the apartment.

Sam sighs. "I'm sorry."

He lunges forward just in time to jam his foot onto the track of sliding glass door as Castiel tries to drag it shut. Sam has learned from past experience that Cas has no qualms about trying to lock him out overnight. The last time that happened, it had been too cold to wait out Cas' volatile temper.

Sam had been left with no choice but to climb over to Mrs. Kimball's balcony and pretend that he had locked himself out by mistake. Then he had been forced to stand in the hall, in his boxers, knocking on his own door, muttering apologies for over an hour until Castiel relented and let him back inside.

Good times.

It doesn't take much energy for Sam to hold the balcony door open. They are certainly not equally matched in physical strength. "I needed to see for myself what the atmosphere was. They're not ready."

Castiel strains for a moment, still trying to slam the door. Then he lets go. Once Sam is inside, Cas hurls the bottle at his head. Sam ducks out of the way just in time to avoid a trip to the hospital. The glass smashes against the wall behind him, Bordeaux splashed on the ruffled clam wallpaper; emerald glass on the eggshell carpet. Sam admires yet another beautiful mess while Castiel screams in his face.

"You! You're not ready. It's you, you fucking coward."

"Okay. You're right. It's me. Okay? I'm sorry." Sam's fingers slide over Cas' arms as he slips out of the room.

A door in the back of the apartment slams shut. Sam stands, stunned, in the torn-apart living room. He winces at the muted sounds of Cas raging, screaming and breaking more of their exquisite, expensive belongings. Things Castiel had chosen and Sam had paid for.

He kneels and finds two complementary fragments of the shattered vase. He holds them to each other in a futile attempt to salvage from all this wreckage.

When Dean drags himself through the door, the voices, beeps and dings of some game show rerun float in from the next room. He drops the cord that holds his key on the kitchen table and loosens the green noose Jo Winchester's had tied around his neck.

Jody is sprawled on the ratty, slightly piss-smelling, thrift store sofa. She doesn't even try to make space for him. "Where ya been, D?"

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Where you been, Jojo? Move."

When she still doesn't budge, Dean grabs her legs and hoists them around to the front of the sofa to make room to sit down. The tattered hem of her jean skirt rides up her thighs. She kicks at him, but he holds her ankles together with his hands. She squirms. "You little shit."

"Yeah?" Dean pounces and tackles her. He easily pins both of her shoulders back, smirking down. "Dude, your breath is foul."

She opens her mouth wide to puff the disgusting odor up into his face. A styrofoam box lays open on the floor with a plastic spork sticking out of three day old lo mein.

"You're so gross. I can't believe you ate that. I'm not taking you to the emergency room."

Jody smiles up and wipes a cool hand over his forehead. When the music on the screen changes, she turns back to the TV and gives him a shove. "Get up. My show's back on."

Dean slumps back, rubbing one of his eyes with a balled up fist. "Jojo, I think I'm in love."

"You're always in love." She prods him with her bare foot.

"Yeah, I know. But I mean it this time."

"'Course, you do. And what is the cure for love?" She crosses her legs over his lap.

"Fucking," Dean answers by heart, the same as if you had asked him to recite his ABCs.

"That's right. Never forget it. So, fuck her and be done with it." She's not even looking at him. She's only got eyes for Bob Barker.

Dean tickles her behind a stubbly knee. "It's not a her. Tasty straight guy."

"Same thing. If you think you're in love, the fault is yours."

"I don't actually think I'm in love. I just want to fuck him." He points to the moron on the television. "That is a stupid bid."

Jody grins, reaches over and ruffles his hair. "Horny boy."

"Shut up." He swats her hand away.

"Well, what's his name, lovesick puppy?"

Dean rolls it around on his tongue for a moment, like he hasn't been saying it to himself for hours already. He tries not to smile. It doesn't work. "Sam."


	3. Chapter 3

MONDAY

On his way up the hall, Dean keeps peeking over his shoulder and nearly, literally runs headlong into Ash. "Dude."

 _'This mullet does not belong in the 21st century. I have to hand it to the guy, though. He is always good for a grin._ '

Dean raises both of his hands in apology. "My bad. Hey, look. I been meaning to talk to you. No hard feelings, right?"

Ash furrows his brow in a severe scowl before his whole face melts into easy laughter. "What about? Dude. No way, man. You're the best fucking QB I've had the pleasure of being benched for. We're cool, man."

"Cool."

Ash puts a fist in the air and grunts, "Gator pride."

"Right." Dean bumps the fist with his own.

Once the hall is clear, picking the lock and slipping into the coach's office is cake. Every few seconds, he raises his head to check out the door. He hisses in a breath as he tries to keep the middle drawer from squeaking so loudly.

"Shut up!" Dean whispers to the wood and puts a bit of weight into the process to quiet it.

Once open: nothing. He sucks his teeth and shoves aside a useless stack of papers and pens that rattle loosely. There is a treasure trove of candy and old wrappers hidden underneath them. Clearly contraband, but not what he is looking for. He swears and shuts the drawer far more easily than he'd opened it.

Still watching the door, he tries a side drawer next. He doesn't actually expect it to be there, but tries the one below it. There, he finds a manila folder with a hairy bush porno magazine inside. He picks it up and chuckles. "Dirty old bastard."

Beneath that, there is a silver flask which Dean starts to unscrew out of curiosity … just as the door creaks.

The coach's eyes narrow. Dean freezes and just waits for the busting of his balls. Just like that, the coach closes the door behind himself. He tilts back his head and takes a deep breath. "You want to explain, son? Or should I just assume?"

He tosses the flask on the desk and raises his hands like he is under arrest. "Go ahead and assume."

Coach Winchester sighs and hangs his jacket over the back of his chair. "Wait here."

When the door shuts behind him, Dean digs through the the old man's jacket. In the first pocket, his hand clenches around the cell phone. He subdues an annoyed growl. "Fucking moron."

He wastes no time in pulling the thing out. "Flip phone, for fuck's sake? They still make these?"

It takes a minute to figure out how to use the buttons to control the ancient thing. He scrolls directly to the coach's contacts. The entire list consists of Brady, Jo, Mary, and School. That is it.

However the coach plans to punish him, Dean knows he is good and royally screwed. All for nothing. Both fists raise to the ceiling. "Fuuuuck."

Mary Winchester is a 46 year old version of Jo, which means pretty damn hot for an old chick. She clasps her hands, French manicured pointer fingers extended in front of her burgundy lips. "Well, I guess you can start by taking out the trash?"

There is hardly anything in the bin at all: today's newspaper, some coffee grinds and a couple of eggshells. Dean lifts the mostly empty plastic bag and makes his way out of the kitchen door. Before he even drops the trash, Jo bounds out of the garage. Her hair is in two thick braids that hang over her shoulders like Dorothy Gale. Even before she gets close, he can smell her flower-sweet, little girl perfume. She marches over and punches him in the arm. Not lightly, either.

It doesn't actually hurt, but he rubs it. "Ow?"

Her eyes flicker to the spot she hit for a moment before she shakes her head. "Idiot."

"Yeah. I know." Dean drops the lid.

She folds her arms over her chest and leans against the wall. "My dad said all you would have had to do was ask him… for anything."

Dean sighs. It's not like he can explain himself.

"At least you're not off the team or anything." Jo lodges herself between him and the door.

"No. I'm just your mother's personal slave." Dean pushes her, gently, but firmly, the fuck out of his way.

He steps back into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together. "Mission accomplished."

Mrs. Winchester waits in one of those white skirt aprons June Cleaver always has on. "Okay. I think I have a job for you. Would you go get Joanna, please?"

Dean had just escaped Joanna, but the agreement was: Mrs. Winchester says hop, Dean makes like a rabbit. He rolls his eyes and trudges through the parlor and up the stairs. "Joanna."

From down the hall, her voice comes back, "Out in a second."

He nods and begins to head back to the kitchen when he notices a bedroom with baby pink wallpaper and Justin Bieber posters.

'That kid seriously thinks he's hardcore because he's got some tattoos. I'm going to kick his pop-singing Canadian ass if I ever get the chance.'

In the middle of the fluffy pink bedspread, a Hello Kitty cell phone telephone case twinkles like the Holy Grail. Dean glances over his shoulder before he creeps into the room. He taps the screen. Password protected. Of course. "Fucking Winchesters."

"What are you doing?"

He spins on his heels. "Where are you on panty sniffing?"

"Kids!" Jo's mom's voice rings out with improbably good timing.

Dean's hand sweeps out to point the way for Jo to go first. Then, he swipes it down his face in relief.

"Hands washed, Dean?" Mrs. Winchester hands Jo a pink apron with her name embroidered over her heart.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Show me."

"Seriously?" He rests his hands, palms up in her outstretched hands for inspection.

She gives a little sniff before she's satisfied.

"Happy?"

"Don't sass me, young man." She flips his hands and gives them a light tap.

"Sorry."

"Mmhm. Now, hand me the flour."

"Flour." Dean repeats it and pores over through the steel containers on the marble-topped kitchen island.

He carries the canister over to Mrs. Winchester, a bit prouder of himself than necessary. The next instruction is to measure out four cups and pour them through the sifter. Dean pours as slowly and methodically as if he were working with corrosives in a chemistry lab.

"What is this stuff?" He rubs the powdery substance between his fingertips and thumb.

"It's flour." Jo answers, rolling her eyes.

Her mother nudges her. "It's what bread and cake and cookies are made of. The most basic ingredient. Ground up wheat."

"Hm."

Mrs. Winchester guides him through the recipe while Jo stands with her fist over her mouth, trying to hide her giggling. Her mother scowls and tells her to grease up the trays. "So, Dean, what do your parents do?"

Dean mulls it over. His parents. Right. Sometimes, he forgets that he has one of those. "Um. My mother's a hairdresser."

"I could use a trim."

After the cookies are in the oven, Jo insists on teaching Dean how to play checkers. He is beating her by the middle of the second game when his train of thought is totally derailed by an insanely marvelous scent. He sniffs the air and rises from his seat like some cartoon character dragged along by a curling finger of fragrant steam.

"Oh my God. That is amazing." He crouches in front of the oven and nearly presses his face to the glass.

Mrs. Winchester smiles. "Have you never had homemade cookies, Dean?"

Dean takes one look at her smug little smile. The cookie smell spell is broken and his blood is starting to boil. "So, like, not having homemade cookies is how you breed criminals?"

She actually looks offended. "Not what I'm suggesting at all."

"I should probably head out." 'Before I get really pissed at the coach's Stepford family.'

He is already completely pissed at himself for getting into trouble for nothing. This whole situation is stupid. Dean has to accept that he is never going to find what he's been looking for. He had met That Guy once, knew nothing about him, and had become mildly obsessed. Now, it's time to let the craziness go.

Mrs. Winchester won't let up, though. "I want you to wait and take some home with you."

Jo's head snaps back and forth between them like she's watching a tennis match.

"I think my sentence is complete for today." Dean's jaw is clenched tight. He does not want any more of these people's charity. He wants to go home and suffer in peace.

"When I say it is." Her voice is at once kind and unyielding.

"So, you're going to force me to eat cookies?"

Her eyelashes bat. "If I have to, yes. Joanna, didn't you say you have some homework left?"

Jo gawps up at Dean with wide eyes before she traipses off like an obedient little lap dog.

Mrs. Winchester nods, unyielding. "Dean, I'll have you on your way shortly. In the meantime, you can go and bring me my cell phone from the table by the front door?"


	4. Chapter 4

Dean strips down to his boxers and lounges on his back in the middle of the bed. He stares up at his cell phone. The screen is all cracked to hell, but it works.

He had just been looking for Sam's phone number; the picture is a massive bonus. He switches back and forth between from covering one half, then the other half of the snapshot with his hand. He squints at it with his right and then, his left eye. He doesn't bother to look up when Jody comes into the room. She drops her purse on the floor and kicks off her shoes. "Get out of my bed, you hooligan."

He gives her the finger and tries zooming in on Sam's face. Then, he slides it over to look at the pixelated image of Jo.

Jody collapses next to him with a heavy sigh. She yawns and rubs her eyes before she jabs him with cold toes. "Tired as fuck. Why don't you be a good boy and rub my feet?"

"Rub your own feet." He shoves her away.

Jody snatches the phone and points at her feet. He rolls his eyes and gets to work. She is wearing the same jean skirt with the tattered hem that she wears most days. The way she lays, he catches a sorely unwanted glimpse of the blue lace trim on her panties.

He massages and kneads while Jody studies his phone. "The girlfriend is cute. She looks sweet."

"She is."

"Stiff competition, but no match for my boy." Jody declares like she's giving a victory speech.

"That's his sister."

"That should make it easier."

"Give me that." He grabs the phone and tosses himself down beside her. This time, he lays on his stomach. "Hey, you know what flour is?"

Jody sits up and continues massaging her own feet. "Like, flour? For baking?"

"Yeah, exactly. You know about that?"

She snickers. "And _I'm_ crazy? What? You didn't know what flour is?"

"How would I know … Whatever. Forget it. What should I write to Sam?"

"Exactly whatever you're thinking." Jody crosses the tiny room to the rickety dresser. They had found it on the side of the road. It had been hell getting that thing into the apartment, just the two of them.

"Whatever I'm thinking? Come fuck me right now." He articulates each word as he thumbs the message into his phone.

Jody smiles and pulls her shirt up over her head. "That's good. Get this and get lost. I need to get some sleep."

Dean glances at her back. He uses one hand to loosen her bra for her. "Come on. I need you to help me. What should I write?"

"Stop being a pussy about it, Dean. Just whatever you kids say to each other. 'What's up, dude?'" Dressed in a long T-shirt, she kneels back on the bed and slaps his ass.

"He's not a kid. He's old, like you."

"Fuck you." She flops onto her belly next to him. "How old?"

"I don't know. Thirty, maybe."

Her eyes pop open. "Thirty? Dean. Jesus. You're gonna get the guy locked up."

"Why? You calling the cops?"

Jody squints down at the picture. "No, I'm just saying. What does a guy his age wants with a kid your age?"

He rolls onto his side and looks straight at her. "I know what you're thinking and it's not like that. For one thing, no matter what we do, Sam's not going to knock me up."

He flips onto his back and stares up at the phone again. "I'm going to start with 'Hi.' Or 'Hey.' Is 'Hi' or 'Hey' better?"

Jody frowns at the image. "Big muscle-head. Fat neck. Shoulders for days. Is this your coach, Dean? He looks like a football player."

He grabs the phone back and sits up on the edge of the bed with his feet on the cold floor. "No."

She sits up behind him. "So, we're going through that again?" she sighs.

He keeps his back turned to her, still staring down at the photo. "Would you stop worrying? Please. I got it covered."

"How am I supposed to stop worrying, Dean? This is exactly how he found us last time. You and fucking football." Her voice quivers over the last word.

"Well, what if he can trace police records, too?"

"Then stay out of fucking TROUBLE!" She punches him in the side, seriously trying to inflict pain.

Dean grips his throbbing ribs. "I will, because I'll be too busy training."

"You know, it would be fine if you could just play, have fun and blend in. But no. You have to be the crackerjack hot shot. You have to wind up in the paper. Why don't you just send up a smoke signal for fuck's sake?" Jody stands up and huffs over to her piece of shit dresser.

Dean doesn't mind attention. He gets it whether he likes it or not, so usually, he just rolls with it. But he doesn't play football for attention. He doesn't play to show off. He plays to stay sane. He doesn't bother trying to explain.

Jody's hands tremble as she shakes a cigarette from the pack. She points with it between her fingers. "You're a fucking showoff is your problem. Well, he's not just going to come for _you_ , you know? And I'm not ready to die. Stop with the fucking football."

Dean sighs. "Mom, I swear to you: He's not going to find us. Not ever again. And if he does, I'll deal with it."


	5. Chapter 5

Sam keeps his eyes trained on the spreadsheet in front of him, even as a cold hand slithers across his neck, over his shoulder and down his chest. As the hand begins to pry at the button of his pants, Sam catches it in one of his own. "I'm going to need at least another couple of hours."

"That's what you said a couple of hours ago," Castiel hisses into his ear and nibbles on the lobe.

Sam stretches his head away from the teeth. "It's a big project. You shouldn't wait up."

"Then you should put me to bed."

Sam sighs and swivels his chair around. Castiel pushes Sam's glasses up onto his head and crawls into his lap. Sam turns his nose up at the stench of booze. He turns to avoid a kiss. Castiel pinches his chin viciously between his thumb and forefinger and forces Sam to look at him. "Fuck me and I'll leave you alone."

Sam sighs at the ceiling. _'He is never going to leave me alone.'_

Sam turns to stack his papers aside carefully. In one easy motion, he lifts a giggling Cas from his lap onto the edge of the desk.

"My tiger." Castiel wraps his jean-clad legs around Sam's waist. His hips buck up as Sam opens his zipper.

He lifts himself off the desktop to allow Sam to pull his pants off. Sam locks his gaze with dull blue eyes and grabs a fistful of Castiel's cock. Cas shoves him away. The lust on his face is instantly replaced by unmistakable rage. His voice breaks as he spits, "You fucker."

Sam takes a deep breath and purses his lips. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." Castiel wipes messily at the wet trail of mascara already soiling his cheek. "Why would you do that?"

"I told you, I'm sorry. I got … carried away."

"You did it on purpose." He tucks his chin into his chest and sobs like a child.

Sam runs a hand through his own hair, knocking his glasses to the floor. "Cas, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to touch you there. I just … thought you might like it."

The sobs become a growl, "You know I don't like it. You know how much I hate it. I hate it. I hate it." Castiel punctuates his anger with punches to his own crotch. He gasps with the pain and begins to cry again, this time silently, with his head bowed.

Sam is paralyzed. As much as he wants to comfort Castiel, the only thing he ever seems to want is Sam's cock up his ass. That is entirely contrary to what Sam wants, which is for Castiel to leave.

So, he watches the breakdown from halfway across the room with one arm wrapped around his own body and one covering his mouth. For a moment, he doesn't recognize the electronic melody; it's not one he hears often. It sounds like light cascading down a gentle slope. It's a pleasant, relaxing sound that is at perfect odds with the ferocious look on Castiel's face when he glares over at Sam's phone. " Who is Dean?"

"I don't know."

"Dean Smith."

"Oh." Sam winces. He _does_ know. "He's a kid."

"What does he want with you?"

"I don't know." That's not entirely true. It was plain as day on the kid's face.

"Are you fucking him?" Saliva sprays from Cas' mouth along with the accusation.

"Castiel."

"I will murder that bitch. I will gut him and hang him from the fucking balcony." He blinks violently, but he sounds like he's planning what to have for breakfast.

"Cas, calm down."

"WHY DON'T _YOU_ FUCKING CALM DOWN? Huh?" With one sweep of his arm, all of Sam's work papers and the phone fly onto the floor.

Sam glances down at the mess, but doesn't dare to move. It's like facing down a rattlesnake.

Castiel stalks down from the desk and shuffles his feet over the papers, scattering and ripping them. "Is he pretty? Hm? Is he prettier than me? Is he younger? How old is he, Sam? HOW OLD?"

Sam is shocked into answering. "I don't know. Young. High school, probably."

He says 'probably,' although he already knows. Dean is his father's new golden boy. John Winchester is decent to, but doesn't chum up with, the kids who can't even throw straight. He is attracted to talent just like his son is addicted to misery.

 _'I must be. Why else would I put up with this?'_

In unison with Sam's silent self-condemnation, Castiel snorts, "Jesus. You fucking pedophile."

"It's not like that."

"Is that what you want? Some hairless little pussy you can push around and make do whatever you want? Am I too old for you, Sam? Is that why you don't love me anymore?" Cas' face is streaked black with tears and makeup, like something from a horror film.

"Cas."

Castiel drops himself cross-legged onto the scraps of papers. Then, he hurls the phone. "Answer him."

Sam nearly fumbles, but manages to catch it. He stares down at the screen.

"Does he call you Daddy? Huh? Sit on your face with his tight, little, pink pussy?" Castiel crawls through the mess and wipes his polluted tears onto Sam's pants leg.

It's safe to assume that the stain will never come out. His hand hovers as if to stroke Castiel's hair, but he drops it again by his own side.

"I want to watch you sexting with your little baby boy." He gropes at Sam's crotch.

Sam brushes his hand away. "It's not like that, Castiel."

"No? Then, what's it like? Answer him, and I'll see for myself what it's like." He clings fast with his arms wrapped around Sam's leg.

Sam tries to push him away, but Castiel sinks his teeth into the meat of Sam's thigh. "Ouch. Stop it. I just met this kid. I don't know why he's writing me. I don't even know how he got my number, okay?"

Castiel tugs hard on his slacks. "Met him where, Sam? You go to work, you come home."

That is only because Castiel pitches a fit any time Sam tries to do anything other than go to work and come home. He isn't allowed to have friends or go out or engage in any kind of activity that doesn't include Castiel. And, frankly, Castiel is too unpredictable to take out. That always only backfires into some horrendous scene. So, Sam goes to work and comes home.

Sam finally sighs and kneels down next to him. "He was at my father's party."

"Oh. A sweet little kicker. I'll make you watch me slit his throat." His hands crawl like spiders over Sam's face.

"Would you stop it with that? I'm not sleeping with this kid, Cas."

"ANSWER HIM!"

"FINE!" Sam's phone lights up when he taps the screen.

UNKNOWN: Hey Sam. Dean Smith

Sam holds his breath and types back.

SW: Hello, Dean.

It takes less than a minute for him to answer.

UNKNOWN: HIG

He frowns over at Castiel. "I don't know what that means."

SW: ?

UNKNOWN: Hows it going

"Oh."

SW: Going ok. Not a good time, buddy

"Tell him to send a picture of his hairless…"

"Castiel, I swear to God." Sam grinds his teeth. He would never hit Cas, ever, in a million years. But sometimes he thinks about it.

UNKNOWN: K.

UNKNOWN: TTYL

Sam exhales and turns the phone to show Castiel all the harmless and perfectly appropriate messages.

Cas tosses it away and caresses Sam's face. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. I'm so stupid. I know you don't want any baby pussy. Let me make it up to you."

"Forget it." Sam stands up and tries to help Castiel do the same.

He refuses to stand. He chooses to remain on his knees in front of Sam so that he can claw at the button of his pants.

"Cas, no. Just get up."

"Let me. Sammy. Let me. Please. I'm so stupid. I just want to make you feel good. Please, let me. Don't be angry. Let me take care of you."

Sam closes his eyes as Castiel noisily slurps and slathers. Five minutes later, he gazes up with his ink-streaked face and spits out the still flaccid penis. "Don't you still love me anymore, baby?"

Sam looks down at the darkness clouding around those pitiful, bloodshot, storm-blue eyes. He can't stop himself from stroking chasm-black hair and murmuring, "Of course, I do."


	6. Chapter 6

Dean scratches his balls and snarls at the words on his phone. He drops his leg from the back of the couch and sets his feet flat on the floor.

SW: Not a good time, buddy.

"Buddy?" He grumbles at that word like it's profanity and stuffs the offending device under his pillow. In the kitchen, Jody is already at the table, scratching off lottery tickets. A cigarette bobs between her lips when she speaks. "Morning, sunshine."

Dean groans into the mostly-empty fridge and each of the bare cabinets. Finally, he snaps his fingers and smiles, remembering his treasure. He finds his backpack where he left it, hanging off the back of the other chair. He unzips it and his face falls. His head snaps around, giving a second look at the table.

There it is. Well, sort of. The tupperware container with his name written on the top in flawless cursive with fuchsia Sharpie is there. And it's empty: bare as the fucking cabinets.

He takes a deep breath, trying to stop his lips from quivering in anger. His throat is locking up so tight that he can hardly form the words. "Dude. You did not eat my cookies."

"Don't call me dude."

"Did you eat my cookies, Jody?"

She snickers. "You look like Peter Pan."

Dean drops his hands from his hips and bashes a fist on the table. It makes her jump, but isn't as rewarding as he'd hoped. "Jody, did you eat my fucking cookies or what?"

She grins up and answers slowly, taunting him. "They were really good, too. You got a little girlfriend baking for you now? I thought you were sucking dicks this week."

Deep breathing isn't working anymore. Dean is literally on the verge of hyperventilating. He had baked those cookies his-fucking-self. "Are you serious? That was my breakfast."

"Eat something else."

"There _is_ nothing else!" He's not exaggerating. He knows about the fucking hunger games, for real, and he is not picky. He would have made a ketchup sandwich if there had been any bread.

Jody lifts her hips in her chair so that she can reach into her pocket to produce a crumpled one dollar bill to flick across the table. "There. Go get yourself some hash browns or something and quit bitching at me. Jesus."

Dean throws up his hands and leaves the kitchen before he gives in to the urge to bludgeon his mother to death with that empty tupperware.

Dean gives his roaring stomach a reassuring pat as he pushes through the double doors. He's done hollow days before. It ain't fun, but nobody starves to death in one day.

A trio of giggling girls pass. One of them even has the rocks to meet his eyes. Not the cute one, but still. He tosses his chin up. "Ladies."

It has the desired effect. The whole gaggle of them, even the brave one, squeals and bumps shoulders with one another. Girls are a riot. Dean snickers to himself and almost forgets his empty guts.

Even before he turns down D hall, he hears the clanging and laughter. He assumes it'll be another worthy distraction. As it turns out, Ash has invented a new sport: Nerd Squash.

There don't seem to be any rules other than shove the geek back up against the puke green lockers every time he tries to get away. The sound of the kid whimpering sets off Ash's growing audience in a series of whoops and cackles and the occasional self-righteous complaint from a passing female.

Ash pushes the beanpole of a boy against the steel doors again. There's a loud clank as the kid actually bounces before he whines. The guys cheer. Dean thinks, _'Idiots,_ ' and would really rather walk away. Most of this crowd are guys from the team, which means he'd be walking a tightrope getting involved, but he fucking hates bullies. Always has.

He rolls his eyes and steps between Ash and the kid.

Ash blinks, confused by the interference at first. Then, he moves aside with a grin, as if graciously offering Dean a chance to knock the dweeb around.

"What's the deal here?"

Ash laughs. "Little morning warm-up."

Now that the spectacle is over, the guys start to clear off. Dean nods a greeting at a couple of them The twerp has his back pressed against the lockers, as if some invisible force is pinning him there.

"Why are you fucking with this kid?"

Ash gestures. "Look at him."

Dean gives the squash ball/shivering dork a once over. He's all skin and bones with too-big eyes in a too-small head; he's got a pointy, crooked nose, and his neck is about half a foot too long.

He reminds Dean of that half-starved, homeless dog he tried to feed in Pensacola, back when he was 8 years old. For the longest time, that damn thing had been too shell-shocked to come to him even for food. Dean had named it FUBAR. After a week, it was gone anyway.

He looks at the chump and points down the hall. "Scram."

Ash frowns at the scurrying stray. His sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he dodges oncoming students. He only slows to scoop up his backpack.

"The bell's going to ring in like 3 minutes, man. You get detention, coach is going to have all our asses."

Ash nods and claps Dean's shoulder like he just did him a huge favor. He runs off, too, but in the opposite direction. Dean shakes his head, takes his own advice and gets to class.

Coffee strings Sam out. So does black tea. He brings his own strainers and decaffeinated, loose-leaf oolong from home. Steam curls up over the mug in his hand while he watches his coworkers prattle on about some show he doesn't watch. Their voices blend with the clack of calculators, the crunch of staplers, the scrape of tape.

He doesn't particularly dread what's waiting at his desk, but lingers by the coffee table with eyes unfocused. Mindlessly, he twirls a plastic spoon in his cup, even though he doesn't take sugar. Natural sweeteners also string him out. The artificial ones are carcinogenic.

His mind wanders back to the way Dean's eyes glinted in the dwindling sunlight. He remembers as clearly as if he had been gazing into them when he woke up this morning: glowing emerald, viridescent crystal he'll probably never see again. Surprised by the sudden sinking feeling at that thought, he huffs quietly. He tucks the spoon into his pocket to take home and recycle.

The number is still in his phone. Sam could call him back or send a text message, but what good could come from that? Still, he grins to himself. _'Intrepid little bugger.'_

He makes his way back to his cubicle and gets to work.

Dean stares out at the field. There won't be practice in an outright downpour. He sighs and watches the rain batter the glass. The teacher drones on like something out of Charlie Brown. His stomach growls. A wad of gum from underneath his desk is now stuck to his pants leg. This day is fucked.

He slouches down so he can hide his cell behind the desk.

DS: GAS

Sam always works with his head down and earbuds in. Still, totally immersed as he is, he notices out of the corner of his eye when the screen on his phone lights up.

Dean's pocket buzzes. A flash sparks in the center of his chest.

SW: What?

Dean scoffs at first, thinking Sam is being a dick.

 _What? As in, what do you want, you little piece of shit?_

Then, he grins, realizing he doesn't get the abbreviation. _'Old people.'_

DS: Got a sec

SW: Working

DS: Wt do u do

SW: Accounting

DS: Snds tuff. U shd tk a brk

SW: Aren't you supposed to be in school?

DW: Am. Trig is tuf. Im tkng a brk

SW: In the middle of something

Dean rolls his eyes at the message and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. A minute later, his pants vibrate.

SW: I get off at 9. Msg me then, if you want

Sam slips a few folders into his briefcase and shuts down his computer. He picks his phone up from his desk and looks around the mostly darkened office. His will be the last lamp extinguished, like most nights.

He doesn't actually expect the kid to message again. He doesn't even know if he wants him to. _'What good reason is there for talking to this kid?'_

Still, he switches the setting from mute to ring and carries it in his hand. His shoes echo loudly through the empty parking garage.

Dean is laid out on his couch, comfortable and relaxed, except that his stomach is tied up in a knot that is, maybe, not just hunger related. He picks up his phone for the fifth time and puts it back down. "What are you, a fucking girl?"

He sits up and leans over to turn up the theme song to Dukes of Hazzard. Soon, he'll see his sweetheart, Daisy, and everything'll be right with the world.

The car turns over. Vivaldi springs to life from the speakers. Sam glances over at the phone in his passenger's seat before he pulls from his space. At a red light, he gives it another peek. The windshield wipers whip out of time to the music. Sam turns them down. The storm is passing over.

 _'Oh, come on'_ Dean groans at a Lucky Charms commercial. He wishes like shit he had some cereal right about now. He picks up his phone again.

As he is walking up the wet pavement to his building, that charming melody lights up his pocket. Sam stops in his tracks and sighs.

DS: Now good?

"No," he answers out loud.

SW: Not really. Have a good night.

He powers down the phone before continuing into the apartment.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean wipes his tongue over the back of his arm, but can't get rid of the nasty acid tang. He digs his phone from under his pillow. It's ten minutes before he would have had to wake up anyway, so he lays there and blinks at the cracks in the ceiling. Up early with nothing to look forward to.

The whole building could crash in on his head and the only other person in the world who would know or give a crap is in the other room snoring so loudly he can hear her through the walls.

He begins to sing under his breath. "Happy birthday, fucking asshole … "

 _'Enough of that.'_

He gets up to take a piss. The toilet clogs, just like every third morning, because the plumbing in this place is shit, just like Dean's entire life.

"No, no, no. Come on, please."

He considers shouting out that it's his birthday, for fuck's sake, but toilets don't usually respond to that kind of information. Filthy water rises until it's splashing his toes. "Aw, gross."

Of course, they don't own a plunger, because every time he asks for one, Jody says they won't be here long enough for it to make sense. Usually, he uses a hanger, but the water doesn't usually rise within seconds to the point that it starts flooding the bathroom.

Kneeling in a puddle of sewage, Dean holds his breath and digs around in the neck of the thing with his bare hand. His fingers squish something that can only be a mega-turd and he gags, which he fucking hates.

The only thing that keeps him from yacking all over the floor is the knowledge that he would have to clean it up.

Eventually, the water goes down. Another day in paradise.

Around noon, people start to break off into chatty pairs or groups of three. Sam pulls his bowl of salad out of the temperature-controlled bag and eats hunched over his work.

Jo is behind the door with her arms folded when Dean shuts his locker. He swings his bag onto his shoulder. "Joanna Beth."

She keeps pace alongside him, apparently still seething. "I texted you in second period and, like, ten times during math."

Dean halts and sighs down at her. "I left my phone at home."

She squints, obviously unsure whether to believe him or not. "On purpose?"

"I needed a break."

She shudders dramatically. "I would lose my mind without my phone."

"Some things are actually worse." _'Like chasing after some guy who obviously doesn't want to talk to you.'_ "I'll write you back tonight, okay?"

As he rounds the corner, he hears the loud, clanking thud of someone punching a locker. He assumes some jerk has lost his temper. As it turns out, it's someone inside of a locker, banging and blubbering for help.

A few people snicker as they pass. Nobody else seems interested at all. Dean knocks on the door.

"Oh thank god," the locker pants. "I'm think I'm going to hyperventilate. I'm mildly claustrophobic and…"

"All right, all right. What's your combo?"

Dean has been in high schools all around this great nation and one thing seems to be universally true: little guys get no respect. But the guy who spills out onto the floor is not little. He's as tall as Dean, but he's skinny as fuck and familiar. It's FUBAR, the same scrappy-looking kid Ash was picking on before. _'Again? Already?'_

He's is on his knees, chest heaving in and out like he can barely catch his breath. Dean winces down at him. "You need to go to the nurse or something?"

"No. Oh. Thank you. Oh, thank you. Thank you so much." He crawls over and grovels at Dean's feet.

"All right." Dean steps away from his graspy paws. He watches the boy lean his weight against the wall and shakily pull himself to his feet.

"What's your name?" Dean looks in both directions to see if anybody is watching this madness.

"Uh. Garth, sir."

"Don't call me sir."

"Aren't you a football player? Sir?"

"Yeah."

"The guys say..."

"Well, I say, don't."

Garth's beady eyes get all wide, like that little dude, Dobby, in Harry Potter right after he gets a sock. That's what the kid looks like: some kind of overgrown house elf. Dean shakes his head. "Would you just … I don't know, man. Get out of here."

In the boys' locker room, Dean tosses his bag into the bottom of his compartment and starts to change. Ash pats his ass on the way out to the field. Dean stiffens, but doesn't say anything.

The second he joins his teammates at the starting line, the coach's whistle screeches and he motions. "Get over here, Smith."

The guys next to him laugh like idiots at whatever trouble Dean has gotten himself into.

"The rest of you, move out." Two quick tuts of the whistle and the rest of them take off.

Dean jogs over to the coach, cursing himself for whatever way he's fucked up this time. "Yes, sir?"

The old man looks pissed, too. His face is all scrunched up like he's taking a crap in his pants. "I need you to run into my office and grab something from my desk."

Dean stares at the key on the lanyard the coach has placed in his hand. "What is it, sir?"

"You'll know. Get it and come right back."

"Yes, sir." He jogs off obediently, wracking his brain the whole way. He had been falsely accused of throwing spitballs in English two days ago, but it was discovered to be another kid and Dean was let off the hook.

It's mostly been an uneventful day. Dean would much rather keep it that way. He hesitates at the coach's door before he opens it. He flicks on the light and stares stupidly at a chocolate cupcake with a single green candle. The coach's desk is otherwise empty, except for the name plate and a book of matches.

Dean just stares at it all: rainbow sprinkles; clowns on the baking paper. The matches are from McGinty's. Dean's never been in there, but he knows it's the dump where Jody goes after work sometimes.

He lights the candle and watches the flame flicker. Five minutes later - or twenty, or an hour, Dean couldn't really say - green wax drips and hardens all over the nut-brown icing until he puffs out the fire. His nostrils flare and he chews the hell out of his bottom lip. He scratches the corner of his right eye. "You fucking baby."

He peels back the clowns from the bottom and takes a small bite. It's a chocolate cupcake. What's not to like? Except that just the thought of it is choking him up. Jody ignores birthdays and Dean can't remember the last time anybody remembered. He can't even swallow around the golf ball in his throat and winds up spitting it into the steel trashcan. Bending down, he rifles around to shuffle some papers over it.

After a quick detour to the cafeteria to make sure Coach Winchester never learns that he's tossed the thing, Dean returns back to the field. He stands beside the old man, watching his teammates run the track.

"I know you like to be private."

Dean nods. "You didn't tell Jo?"

"I figured you would tell her if you wanted her to know." Coach Winchester doesn't turn to face him. He checks his watch and makes a few marks on his clipboard.

Dean considers saying 'thank you.' He wants to say it; knows he should. It feels like something is obstructing his windpipe again. He can't think of anything that would be worse than bursting into tears in front of his coach, except maybe bursting into tears in front of the team. A couple of guys are coming around the bend towards them. Dean nods again and takes off running.

Dean helps Mary pick tomatoes from the garden for a sauce, which they make from scratch to go along with the meatloaf, also from scratch. It's fucking delicious. He doesn't thank her for the cupcake and she doesn't mention it.

Dean walks home from the Winchester's whistling _Back in Black_. He is playing the solo on air guitar when he kicks the door shut behind him. The music stops when he comes face to face with the cell phone lying on the kitchen table like a hand grenade.

He shakes his head, willing himself not to touch the thing for just a few more minutes.

Dean checks the fridge and, by some kind of miracle, finds a six pack of Michelob Light. _'Maybe she did remember.'_ He treats himself to one and powers up his phone. Jody wrote that she might not make it home tonight. There are 6 messages from Jo Winchester. And 1 from Sam. Dean's stomach does a flip and he pours some beer in it.

He reads over Jo's texts and thumbs in a few quick answers. Then, he carries the phone to the couch, kicks off his shoes and opens Sam's message.

At 12:13 PM, he wrote:

SW: What class are you in now?

That was it. Nothing special. Nothing else. Dean studies it for a few seconds and tries to stop his stupid chest from feeling all tight. _'What kind of loser gets worked up over one sentence?'_

He puts his phone down beside him and turns on the TV. Baywatch. That'll do.

At each commercial break, he taps the screen and looks at Sam's message again, like it's going to magically say something different. He falls asleep with the phone in his hand.

Carmen SanDiego is on at 3:32 AM, when Dean staggers to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. Back at the sofa, he kicks off his jeans.

Then, he texts Sam.

DS: U up?

Sam sets his mug on the desk with a quiet clink. As his computer loads up, he turns on his phone. It dawns on him just how much he had been hoping to hear from this kid. His heart skips when he sees he's got a message - that's not a good sign. Still, he can't help but smile as he types.

SW: Just had my herbal. So yeah, I'm up.

The reply comes in less than a minute.

DS: U smokn at 8 AM?!

Sam laughs out loud. His cubicle neighbor scowls over at him, as if there's a company policy against mirth. This is their first real time communication and with his suppressed giggles, Sam feels more like a teenage girl than an adult man.

SW: Tea

DS: Cffe drnkr mslf

SW: I could have guessed that

DS: Meaning?

SW: Let's just say, you made quite a first impression

DS: Do tell

Sam tilts his head back and forth, searches for just the right words.

SW: Self absorbed spaz

DS: Tell me wht u rlly thnk

Sam laughs out loud again. He apologizes to his frowning neighbor. Then, he gets up and takes his phone to the bathroom. With the stall locked behind him, he leans back against it.

DS: Wnt my frst mprssn of u?

He smiles.

SW: Desperately

The teacher is scribbling formulas onto the whiteboard. His classmates' heads are all down. The test lays out in front of him. Dean hasn't filled in a single answer. He hasn't even written his name.

He blinks down at his phone and types.

Sam stares down at his phone, smiling like he hasn't in god knows how long. His cheeks are starting to hurt with it. Then, he reads Dean's answer.

DS: Fucking beautiful

He feels like he's been kicked in the center of his chest, in the pit of his stomach, in his groin. _'This is not a good idea, on so many levels.'_

Needlessly, he flushes the toilet. He slips the phone into his pocket, washes his hands and splashes cold water on his face. Sam peers in the mirror, finding no trace of what Dean had seen.

Enough time has passed to know that Sam has gotten the message. And that he isn't going to write back.

DS: Clrly nt mtual

 _'Oh well. Had to try.'_

Sam taps his phone and glances at that message. He stares at those two words until the screen starts to go dark. Then, he taps again and studies them, steadying his breathing. Two words. He's losing his mind over two words. Finally, he shakes his head and huffs out his frustration.

He waits until it nearly fades before he picks up the phone and deletes every message they've exchanged today. He runs a rough hand over his chin. He needs a shave.

 _'The work's not going to do itself.'_

This girl across the hall is a luscious cliche: the green and white cheerleader uniform, long dark hair, killer legs. There's a little meat on her, which probably contributes to that amazing rack. She's smiling at him like a warm slice of cherry pie and for once in his life, Dean Smith has no fucking appetite - at least not for what she's offering.

All he can think is: _'What is Sam doing now? Is he going to text back? Should I send another message? I could just write 'JK' or something like that. Is he ever going to talk to me again?_

 _Probably not. Probably, I've completely blown it, because I'm a fucking moron.'_

Dean manages a wink, gives the girl a 'maybe later' smile and shuts his locker.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean supports the sapling while Mrs. Winchester carefully palms dirt around its roots. As usual, his mouth has an idea it didn't run by his brain first. "So, you and Coach only have the one kid?"

She frowns up at him, resting her garden-gloved hands on her knees. "Why would you say that?"

"Oh. I just assumed. You know. There are a ton of pictures of Jo with horses and Jo on the beach and all that. Not any others. You don't talk about any other kid, so, yeah." He shrugs, as innocent and nonchalant as possible.

Silently, she returns to caring for her new baby tree. Apricot.

Dean mouths the word ' _OK'_ to himself and figures that's the end of that.

When they are done, Mrs. Winchester pulls off her gloves and sighs. "Would you come with me, please?"

He kicks off his dirty shoes next to hers by the back door. They both trudge up to the master bedroom. Dean had only seen the closed double doors. It might actually be bigger than his entire apartment. His fingers brush lightly over the gossamer curtain around the four post, king-sized canopy bed. "Wow. You guys have a fireplace in here?"

"Have a seat, Dean." She gestures for him to take a place on the plush antique sofa nestled into the bay window.

She disappears into a walk-in closet the size of Jody's room and returns with a huge trunk. When she stumbles slightly under the weight of it, Dean hurries over to help. "What is this? A treasure chest or something? You a pirate, Mrs. Winchester?"

Her dour expression doesn't change, even with his joke. "This is my son."

She cracks the combination lock and lays it to the side. The first thing she hands Dean is a tattered, well-loved elephant with one eye missing and stuffing sticking out of its trunk. "That's Edison."

Her eyes are already glassy as she sifts through straight A report cards and yellowing chess club certificates. She lines up medals, small trophies and stacks newspaper articles in a growing pile near where Dean sits cross-legged on the floor. Then she hands him a little, misshapen clay figure. After that, it's a laminated chalk drawing. Each one of them has its own story and a special, sad smile. "He was in third grade when he made this. Can you believe it?"

Dean's brow lifts as he continues to sift through the papers and knick knacks Sam's mother sets before him. "Looks like you got quite the overachiever here."

"He was such a good boy. So sensitive."

"In what way?" He puts the lumpy, handmade clay thing - possibly an elephant, but hard to tell - on the floor and watches her face.

She picks up the figurine and smiles slightly, "Oh, in every way. When he was very small, he would squint, like this, trying to keep his eyes closed all day. He'd be awake and active, just avoiding the light. And sound. That was a big one. Loud noises, he didn't like. You couldn't raise your voice around him. Then, it was certain foods. Not allergies, mind you, just ... sensitive. And thoughtful; empathetic. Like he was made out of something a little …" She rubs the air between her fingers, searching for the right word, the right texture to explain what she means. "... lighter than the rest of us."

Dean nods, not wanting to break the spell she seems to have brought on herself.

"Don't get me wrong. He was tough, too. Tough as nails. He could take it and dish it on the field. And he had this laser sharp accuracy." Her head snaps up at Dean, apparently back in the present moment. "John tells me you're that kind of quarterback. Strong and focused. My son was that way."

Dean turns over a mosaic self-portrait and traces his finger over the kid-scribble on the back. "Sam."

Mrs. Winchester nods and looks like she is about to lose it. So, he's about to reduce his coach's wife to tears. ' _In for a penny…'_

"So, what? Is he dead?" Dean would have been less crass if he didn't already know the answer.

The only other obvious conclusion is that the guy he's been texting is a ghost. ' _Which … come on.'_

She doesn't reply. At the bottom of the chest, there are photo albums and yearbooks that she spreads out at his feet so she can watch him thumb through. It all begins with a hospital photo of a plump, bald baby in blue. Dean has never seen a picture of himself as a baby, but he likes kids. Kids are allright. And Sam was cute. But that was to be expected.

He laughs a little to himself.

Mrs. Winchester tells another story for every shot. Dean listens with a growing grin. Sometimes, he trails his finger over the face of the boy, growing up before his very eyes in the scrapbooks and photographs.

Finally, they come to Sam's senior yearbook. Dean pores over each caption and looks long at the striking, young man in his cap and gown. The photo he lingers over longest shows Sam with Coach Winchester. Both of them wear huge smiles as they share a massive trophy. State championship. Dean sighs and closes the book.

"There's a whole separate chest for his college years. We can do that another day, if you like. Thank you for letting me show you all this. I don't…" She wipes a tear from her eye before it even falls.

She begins to pack everything away in a reverent, meticulous order.

"Yeah. No problem. Thank _you_." Dean is reeling from a peculiar cocktail of thoughts and emotions. The ones he can pinpoint are shittiness for making her dig all that up; curiosity about why she has it buried in the first place. Mix in a massive dose of nostalgia for a guy he doesn't even know. The result is one muddled teenager escaping out into the hallway before he can feel any weirder.

"Dean. Don't mention this to my husband, please. Don't mention Sam."

' _OK.'_ "Can I ask why?"

"It's just better that way."

 **CHAPTER 11**

Sam hunches up his shoulders against the unseasonably cool, damp air. He really should have worn a jacket. With a deep breath and a cautious glance over his shoulder, he tucks the dog lead under his arm. He thumbs a message into his phone and shivers.

SW: I'm sorry if I gave you a wrong impression.

Five minutes later, he receives:

DS: NP

It takes Sam a moment, but he figures out that must mean No Problem.

SW: Cool.

' _Kids still say cool, don't they?'_

DS: R U frkd out?

SW: No

DS: Cool

SW: Flattered.

That's a gross understatement.

DS: WAYD

Sam wracks his brain, but nothing occurs to him for the acronym. It's a stupid waste of his limited time.

SW: Please write in English.

DS: What are you doing

SW: Punctuation is nice, too.

DS: What are you a fucking English teacher?

SW: I'm walking the dog

DS: Cool.

DS: What breed?

SW: Chi-Poo

DS: WTF

DS: What the fuck?

SW: Chihuahua Poodle Mix

DS: No shit. Herbal tea and a ChiPoo and ur not interested n me?

DS: JK

SW: Refer to my first impression

DS: LOL.

DS: Laughing out loud.

That's the one abbreviation Sam actually knows. He's also doing it: laughing out loud. It feels good and more than a little dangerous. After all, he is right across the street from his apartment. He covers his mouth with his hand and checks for spectators again. Not spectators. One in particular who would be very upset to see him enjoying himself.

DS: What's your mutt's name?

SW: Chalupa

DS: Hilarious

SW: Wish I could take credit

DS: Oh … GFs dog

SW: It's complicated

DS: What is this? Fucking FB?

SW: You have a dirty mouth

DS: U have no idea

Sam shakes his head. "No."

SW: Flirt free zone

DS: UR a cock tease

' _Subject change.'_

SW: What are you doing?

DS: Jerking off to your yearbook picture.

DS: U look way better now, btw

DS: Technically, flirting is subtle. Way I see it, if I'm not subtle, it's not flirting.

DS: Sam?

SW: Good night, Dean

Sam deletes the messages: every last one of them. He tries not to imagine this gorgeous, green-eyed kid masturbating with his picture. He stands perfectly still until his own body is completely under control. He slips his phone into his pants pocket and covertly adjusts himself.

From his other pocket, he produces a small, blue plastic bag and stoops to clean up Castiel's dog's shit.

Dean leans against his locker; he lets the bustle of students and teachers pass. He nods at a couple of girls who speak to him. Once they pass, he takes out his phone.

DS: Happy Friday

DS: U mad?

Garth (who Dean would have left in his locker if he had only known) brings him this week's third coke and smile. Dean accepts both with a chuckle and waits for the beanpole to skedaddle before he checks to see what Sam wrote back.

SW: I would like to be your friend, but that's only going to work if you can respect my boundaries

DS: My bad.

DS: I'm about to be so respectful it's going to blow your fucking mind.

SW: :)

DS: I have a rule too.

SW: Shoot

DS: No emoticons

There is no reply for a few minutes. Then, Dean receives an actual picture of Sam, smiling.

"Aw, fuck. That's not fair. Fucking dimples?" He blows out a loud breath and wipes his hand down his face.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean wakes up a sticky mess. He growls down at his traitorous dick. "Nice."

It's not as bad as pissing the bed, but now the sofa upholstery is all cum-smelling. Even when he remembers exactly who he was dreaming about - and it's someone he beats off to when he's awake - wet dreams make him feel like a little kid. It's a drag having so little control over his own body.

He shoves his shorts to the bottom of his laundry bag and jumps into the shower quick, before Jody can see. The last time this happened, she didn't let him live it down for months. For good measure, he busts off another one under the lukewarm water.

He lays a towel out on the sofa, stretches back his shoulders and flips on his Saturday morning cartoons. Flashback theatre: Ren and Stimpy. That'll do.

On the first commercial, he runs to the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of Malt-O-Meal Marshmallow Mateys only to discover that the milk, that he was shocked to find in the first place, is actually closer to cottage cheese. It plops out of the bottle in foul smelling clumps, destroying his Mateys and his morning. "Sonofa..."

Dean dumps the gunk into the sink. Then, he carries the whole bag of cereal to the sofa to eat it dry, with his hands. On the next commercial, he texts Sam.

DS: What you doing today?  
DS: We should hang out.

'DS: As totally normal friends, one of whom does not want to fuck the other one.'

Sam has got to dig the perfect English.

'Boundaries.'

Dean can respect boundaries. He doesn't like it, but he can do it.

SW: Busy.  
SW: Have a good weekend  
DS: U2

Sam is working when he hears Cas shriek from the other room. "Not there, you fucking idiot."

He promptly sets his glasses on the desk and goes to see what is the matter.

The movers are engaged in a rapid-fire conversation in a foreign language. They carefully ease the huge, glass coffee table slightly to the right.

"You know what? Fuck you, wetback. I know what 'maricon' means." Castiel's face is a menacing shade of red as he spits the words into the man's face.

Sam steps between them and rests his palm, gently, on Cas' hot and heaving chest. "I got this. Why don't you …"

"Fuck you, too." Cas storms onto the balcony.

Sam gives the man a painful, apologetic half-smile. "I'm sorry."

The mover just shrugs like he puts up with that kind of crap every day and asks, "Where you want it?"

Sam dredges up and dusts off the collegiate level Spanish that he has hardly used since he passed the course. "Um … aqui. Por favor."

A smile flits over the man's face as he nods. Once it's in place, Sam offers an indistinct "Gracias."

He signs the delivery confirmation form and shakes both of their hands before they leave.

Dean's elbow rests on the door handle, his forehead in his palm. Sitting in the back seat is giving him a freaking headache. The fucking Winchester's singing is not helping. These people couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. That does not stop them from squawking at the top of their obnoxiously joyful lungs.

Seriously, all their happiness is like pureeing his brain in a blender. The music might not even be too bad if they would shut up. In spite of himself, Dean's foot taps to the beat. The next time the chorus comes around, he finds himself mumbling along. Something about "a pirate, a puppet, a poet, a thief..." Too many words to get right the first time, but catchy.

Jo smiles over at him and he immediately shuts it down.

"Daddy, turn it up. Dean likes it."

Dean can see the coach's eyes on him in the rearview mirror. He starts to protest as the old man cranks it up, but it's that refrain again. This guy sounds like he's singing through his balls.

They wait until the song is over to pile out of the car. The second the car door opens, Dean groans. He immediately regrets accepting this invitation. It's free to get into the Douglas County Fall Fair, but everything inside these gates is going to cost money that he doesn't have.

His plan had been to make up some excuse why not to go on the rides: nobody could verify whether he'd recently had surgery or not. As much as he's always wanted to try out bumper cars, he'll get a chance some other time. Or not. It doesn't matter. The problem is the smells. The smells alone are going to make the whole thing torture. He is about to enter a sugar-laden, deep-fried corner of heaven and his own personal hell will be not getting to eat a damn thing.

Something brushes against the back of his hands: Jo's knuckles. He stuffs his own hands into his pockets and doesn't even turn to see what kind of look is on her face.

Just ahead of them, Mrs. Winchester curls her arm around the coach's and kicks her legs out like she's at Radio City Music Hall. She's still singing that song.

"Hey, Yo."

Dean's blood curdles at the familiar voice even before he turns around and finds Ash's fist hanging in the air. Dean bumps his against it just to make the moment pass.

"What's good, Smith? Coach. Mrs. Coach." Ash slides a slimy gaze down Jo's body. "You're lookin' mighty fine today, Joanna."

Jo tucks her arm into Dean's. Now they look like a miniature version of her parents. He can't even blame her, though, and doesn't make her stop. Amazingly, Coach Winchester doesn't seem put off by the eye fucking Ash is giving his daughter. That's probably because he is watching the family approaching them.

"Mom and Dad, this is Dean." Another familiar voice pipes up from his other side.

'What is this, a fucking reunion?'

Dean awkwardly raises one hand, impressed and distracted by how normal-looking Garth's parents are. The little girl standing between them is standard issue, too. Garth's the only one who looks like he belongs at Hogwarts.

Garth's mother damn near shakes Dean's hand off. "It's so nice to meet you, Dean. We were really excited to hear that Garry's friends with football players! Weren't we, honey?"

Garth's eyes blatantly plead with Dean not to contradict.

"Uh, yeah. Actually, I been meaning to ask the coach if we need a water boy or something." He actually had thought about it, but just hadn't gotten around to it before now.

Coach is transfixed, as if he's trying to classify Garth's genus and species. Mary Winchester elbows her husband's arm and he chokes out, "Uh, yeah. Sure. Every team needs a water boy."

"That work for you?" When Dean looks at Garth, he's got that elf with clothing look again. "All right, then, we'll catch you at school."

As Garth and his people disperse, Ash claps Dean on the back. "What's it feel like having that fucking fairy ride your dick?"

Mrs. Winchester frowns at the crude language. Dean just scoffs and rolls his eyes. Ash doesn't seem to notice. He just waves and runs off to catch up with some of the guys from the team.  
Dean slides his arm out from Jo's. That doesn't stop her from peering up at him like he just slayed a dragon or something. She locks her elbow back around his. This time, he doesn't move. She's soft and warm; it's not the worst thing that ever happened to him.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder and Dean leaps away from the girl. The coach gestures with two fingers. "I need you to come take a look at something with me."

A freeze washes down Dean's spine, "Look, I wasn't…"

"Shut up."

Dean sighs and follows the old man over to a duck shooting stand. With both of their backs to the ladies, he pulls out his wallet. "You got any money?"

"I'm good." Dean tries his best not to look at it. He pins his gaze to a bobbing bird instead.

The coach slaps a 50 into his hand and growls, "Pay me back," before pocketing his billfold and strolling back over to his wife.

"Turn right."

Sam obeys the gruffly barked command. With his arms out wide, like a scarecrow crucifixion, he peeks down at the finger between his navel and the button of his pants.

"You do know that you're allowed to breathe." The redhead at his feet smirks up at him.

He flips his eyes to the ceiling. "Yeah, I know."

"You act like you've never done this before. Every time." Her grin is more amused than critical.

"Don't judge me, okay?"

"I will judge you. Because you're a gigantic baby. Turn around." She manhandles him into turning his back to her.

"You're so rough."

"You love it. Hands in the air." Once Sam complies, she tugs at the bottom of his shirt and draws her hands down his sides. "Come on, baby."

Sam chuckles and twists slowly from side to side while she hums the Chubby Checker song.

"Like you mean it."

Sam bends and sways his body in every possible direction he can imagine. "It feels great, Charlie."

"Of course it feels great. It also looks fantastic. Have you given any thought to my offer? Val pointed out, and I would have to agree, that you are far and away our sexiest customer."

He bows his head to allow himself a mortified snicker. "Oh, no. That's not really me."

"Well, if you reconsider, the offer stands. Half off a three piece suit for a few photos on the website? It's a pretty hot deal, Sam. Kick off that modeling career. Fully clothed."

"No. It is. It's a good deal. I just… don't like a lot of…"

"Attention. I got it. Too bad." Charlie drops her pin cushion into her sewing kit. "Haven't seen you in a while. Is there an occasion? Our boy got a hot date?"

"No." He laughs to himself again.

Though, this time it's with a bitterness that makes him sigh loudly enough for Charlie to raise her eyebrows. "Everything okay?"

Sam nods. It isn't lost on him that his tailor is the closest thing he's had to a friend in years. She's great. He likes her. She's incredible at what she does, but it's not like he can actually talk to her. He should probably find a different type of professional for that. "Just … needed to do something nice for myself."

"Good enough for me, kiddo." She brushes the lint roller down his back a few times. "Now, go give Val all your money."


	10. Chapter 10

Dean's lab partner rolls her eyes when he pulls his buzzing cell phone from his white lab coat pocket.

SW: Hey.

He waves his hand at the cute, plump girl and her unfortunately thick glasses, "Carry on, sweetheart. I'll be right with you."

DS: You're interrupting my education  
SW: What class?  
DS: AP Bio-chem  
SW: Smart jock. I like that  
DS: Fraid not. Regular, dumb jock. Biology was full when I got here.  
DS: I don't understand half of this shit.  
DS: You know anything about catalase kinetics?  
SW: Actually, I do. Thought about going into medicine for a while  
DS: Is that an offer to help me with my homework, doc?  
SW: Maybe sometime  
DS: How about tonight?  
DS: Not flirting, btw. Could genuinely use the help  
SW: You the new kid?  
DW: That was not a smooth subject change  
SW: Boss calling. GTG.  
DS: Talk ltr?  
SW: I'll try

Dean doesn't mind being the guinea pig. Leaning on the Winchester's kitchen island, he valiantly sacrifices himself for science and pops the pastry into his mouth. It tastes a lot like Lemonheads. He'd been caught stealing those from a 7-11 in Jacksonville, NC when he was 10. That had resulted in his first stint in juvie: that and kicking the shit out of the guy who ran the store so he could get what was in the cash register.

He shrugs. "It's good."

Mrs. Winchester smiles. Jo rolls her eyes. "Yeah, right. Like Dean has the world's most discerning palate. He'd eat cardboard."

"Not without salt." Dean corrects her and snags another little sour-sweet cake thing.

"Don't you have homework?" Mrs. Winchester scolds and Jo sulks away.

While Dean helps her stack the snacks, he blurts. "I need to make a little money."

"For what?"

'Because I'm a human being in the 21st century.' Dean chokes back the sarcasm. His own mother would never ask a ridiculous question like that, but this is not his mother. "It would just be good for me to have some."

"Well, if you need something, why don't you just go grab my purse…"

"No. I mean. Thank you." 'I can't exactly accept cash from you to give back to your husband, now, can I?' "I know how to get what I need. What I'm asking you is if you know any ways that you and Coach would approve of."

"I see." She purses her lips in consternation or contemplation or both. "Actually, I might have an idea. One of our elderly neighbors' husband just died. She could probably use some help around the house. Why don't we go have a look if she's home?"

Dealing with some crotchety old lady is not exactly Dean's first choice, but he follows Mary Winchester across the street. He did ask for it.

This woman is not old; she's ancient. The skin on her face looks like centuries-old leather. It folds and wrinkles in ways that remind Dean of an albino prune. The spiky inch of hair on her scalp is dyed pumpkin orange. Stretch pants and an oversized sweatshirt fit her spry body surprisingly well.

A faint scent of peppermint seems to eek out of her pores as she gives Dean a spicy once over and smirks. "Mary! Is this stallion for me?"

Dean's eyebrows shoot up and she winks baby blue eyes at the speechless teen.

"Mrs. Baker, this is Dean Smith. He's one of John's boys and he's looking to be of service. I believe you will find him to be strong, respectful and trustworthy." Mrs. Winchester meets Dean's eyes on that last word. "So, if you would kindly put him to work."

Mrs. Baker opens her door to make just enough space for him to squeeze through, sideways. "Oh, gladly, dear. Dean, is it? Well, come on in here, Dean. I'm sure I have just the thing for you."

He chuckles uncomfortably and accepts the invitation, glancing back over his shoulder at Mrs Winchester, eyes wide with absolute terror.

Between the running shower and Cas singing "The Rose" at the top of his lungs, Sam figures he'll have every indication when the coast is no longer clear. Still, he retreats into the kitchen - the farthest room from the bathroom - and sits on the floor with his back to the cabinets before he writes:

SW: Good day?  
DS: Pretty decent. You?  
SW: I've had better and worse.  
DS: What'd you do?  
SW: Work  
DS: That it?  
SW: That's pretty much me in a nutshell. Riveting, right?  
DS: Do you like what you do?  
SW: It's not bad. Pays well.  
DS: That's something.  
SW: So, new kid. How long have you been in town?  
DS: Few weeks  
SW: Like it?  
DS: It's just another place  
SW: Where did you move from?  
DS: New Orleans.  
DS: Before that we were in San Angelo, TX  
DS: Oceanside  
DS: Twentynine Palms  
DS: Barstow  
DS: San Diego  
SW: Went to school in CA  
DS: UCLA?  
SW: Stanford  
DS: Smart jock  
SW: Always liked school  
DS: Freak  
SW: How's pre-season going?  
DS: Shoulder's a little fucked up, otherwise fine  
SW: You start?  
DS: Fuck yeah I start  
SW: Messing with you. I could tell  
DS: Self absorbed thing?  
SW: I was kidding about that  
DS: You weren't  
SW: I kinda was

Sam smiles down at his phone, realizing that this unspectacular conversation is the highlight of his day.

Half dressed and spread out on the couch, Dean searches through his phone and sends an icon of a bull taking a crap.

SW: What ever happened to no emojis?  
DS: No emoticons  
DS: No punctuation faces  
DS: This here is modern hieroglyphics

Sam spares another glance toward the still noisy bathroom. For the first time, he is actually grateful for Castiel's hour long cleansing ritual.

SW: Good to know. Any other parameters?  
DS: I'll let you know if anything else occurs to me  
SW: Gonna have to go soon  
DS: Why?  
SW: Just do  
SW: You didn't say. Did you like the pic I sent?

Dean pumps his fist at the phone. "Did I like the fucking pic? You asshole. Stop fucking with me."

DS: What pic? Didn't get it. Send another one

Sam grins. "Yeah, right. You didn't get it."

He sticks out his tongue, crosses his eyes and sends a picture of that.

DS: Hot

Sam calls the dog and sends another one with him kissing her snout.

DS: Chalupa!  
DS: Where do you even live?  
SW: The city  
DS: How long does it take to get out there?  
SW: About an hour without traffic  
DS: How often are you here?  
SW: Not often

Across the apartment, the water stops.

SW: GTG

Dean sighs at his phone. "OK."

DW: Night

After a few minutes of no response, he tucks it under his pillow.

Dean looks up the ladder, watching more out of fascination than anything else. He's not trying to go all Harold and Maude, but Mildred keeps it together for a 75 year old. There are chicks half her age who aren't as fit. "You sure you don't want me to do that?"

"You're my assistant. Just hold the ladder. And stop checking out my ass." She reaches up to dust the top of the window frames.

Between that and the constant mint smell that comes off her, Dean can't hold back the sneeze.

"Bless you, darlin'."

Still, dutifully gripping the ladder, he wipes his nose on the inside of his arm. "So, what happened after that?"

"Well, what do you think happened? He went sixth."

"Come on." He shakes his head, incredulous.

"That's right."

A dust bunny wafts down in front of Dean's face. "Come on, Mil, don't jerk my chain."

She chuckles. "You don't believe me, look it up on your Google or something."

Sam picks up his phone with a smile that instantly fades when he reads it. He sighs and wipes a hand down his face. Silencing the device, he goes back to his work. Three hours pass before he gives it another glance. In that time, he has missed more than twenty messages, all to the same effect.

DS: SAM?!  
SW: Hey  
DS: Hey! Where are the fuck you?!  
SW: Working from home.  
DS: Did you not get my messages?  
SW: Just saw them.  
SW: You googled me?

There's a pause of a few minutes.

DS: After someone mentioned it  
SW: Who?  
DS: Does it matter?  
SW: Kinda does  
DS: How could you just fail to mention that?  
SW: Not really significant.  
DS: I'm going to have to disagree!  
DS: Shit, Winchester.  
DS: WTF?  
DS: What the fuck?!  
DS: Next thing you're going to tell me you fucked Katy Perry and just failed to mention it  
DS: And why are you accounting?!  
DS: What the hell happened?  
DS: Did you get injured?  
DS: Dude?!

Sam rubs his forehead.

SW: How was school?  
DS: 6th in the draft, Sam?!  
SW: Don't really want to talk about it  
DS: I'm seriously dying here.  
SW: Another time. Maybe.  
SW: You got practice now?

"Fucking Winchesters, man." Dean looks out across the field. He's the only one in the bleachers now, watching the custodian add an extra coat of white to the 40 yard line.

DS: First game with the team tonight  
SW: Have fun  
DS: Is that official advice from the master?  
SW: Now I'm the master?  
DS: You're a fucking NFL draft pick, Sam.  
SW: Was  
DS: You fucker.  
SW: That's a compliment, isn't it?  
SW: And I actually did meet her once. Very cute.  
DS: I'm going to fucking strangle you

Dean hashes it all out in his mind again. He had assumed that Sam must have been pretty good for him to take the team to the state championship. College ball was no big shocker, either. The idea that Sam had been good enough to play for the NFL was kind of blowing Dean's mind - only slightly more so than the fact that nobody seems to want to talk about it.

DS: Why don't you come watch me play? Give me some pointers after the game  
SW: Wish I could. Got a bunch of extra work to catch up on.  
SW: I'll be surprised if I get to sleep by 2 tonight  
DS: I could come stay up with you?  
SW: Message me when you get home.  
DS: Yeah all right. Later  
SW: Kick a little ass for me  
DS: Will do.

It's nearly midnight. Sam is still at his desk when the phone lights up. He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes and smiles.

DS: Your dad is an asshole  
SW: How bad?  
DS: 13 - 7. He made us run 6 miles. Then made us talk out the game play by play.  
DS: Just getting home.  
SW: The man hates to lose  
DS: Oh yeah and I fucking love it  
SW: He's a brilliant coach. You think you'll lose the next one?  
DS: You think he's so great, why do you two hate each other's guts?

Sam winces at the screen.

SW: I don't hate my dad  
DS: Then, what's the deal?  
SW: Tell you when you're older  
DS: Funny  
DS: Asshole  
SW: Do you get along with your father?

The front door opens. Sam's stomach knots. Castiel's footsteps sound like a death knell in the hallway as Dean writes back.

DS: Good one  
SW: Gtg  
DS: Why?

Sam deletes the messages, puts the phone face down and covers it with some papers. Castiel doesn't even turn his head as he strides past on his way to the bedroom. It was too close and Sam's heart is thudding in his chest.

It's another first for him. Mowing the lawn is not all that bad. You push a machine in straight lines and occasionally empty the bag. It's an okay way to make a buck.

Jo stands up on the porch watching like he's an afterschool special. Mildred, too, from her own porch. Dean waves over at his old pal. She grins and wiggles her fingers back at him.

'What a riot.'

It takes Jo a good ten minutes to work up the nerve to cross the lawn. When she finally gets around to it, he drops the handle on the mower. The racket stops. The dust and clippings settle. He tugs the folded T-shirt from where he has tucked it into the waist of his sweatpants to wipe his sweaty forehead with it.

She keeps about two feet distance between them, facing the house and holding out the glass of lemonade in an outstretched arm. The ice has long since melted. It's pitiful and cute all at the same time.

Dean smirks. "You ok?"

She nods her head. He pulls his shirt on. It's covered in clipped grass and dirt, but Jo finally turns to face him. He can't help but chuckle to himself.

Dean downs the drink all in one gulp. He wonders if Joanna realizes that she's so thirsty she's watching him with her damn mouth hanging open. He nods his appreciation and hands her back the glass. As she heads back to the house, Dean calls after her. "Hey Jo."

She spins around and gazes at him with her doe eyes wide with expectation.

"What's up with your brother?"

"What?" She clearly didn't see that one coming.

"Your brother, Sam. Your mother told me about him. What's the deal there?"

Her mouth flaps a few times before she answers. "I don't know. We don't talk about him. I saw him for the first time in, like, five years at my dad's birthday."

"What, does he have leprosy or something?"

She shrugs. "Do you have siblings?"

"I do not. But my mom's name is Jo."

She laughs like he's putting her on.

"Really. It's Jody. See? You and me, we must be fate."

It's cruel, he knows. It's also kind of hilarious.

A pretty pink blush blossoms on her cheeks and she trips over her feet on her way up the steps.

When Jody comes out of her bedroom, her hair hangs loose over her shoulders. Her lips are so red, black leather dress so tight and short that Dean scratches his head and looks away for a second.

"You like it?" She spins in the six-inch stilettos like she was born wearing them.

"You're looking every bit the slut tonight."

She curtsies. "Why, thank you, son. Spoken like a true expert. Your coach stuck it up your ass yet?"

"He's not my coach."

She rolls her eyes. "But you are still playing football."

"I told you not to worry about it."

Jody tosses her hair off her shoulders with both hands. "I'm not worrying about it. I'm going to get laid."

"Is it that douche, Caleb?"

She gives him the middle finger. "He's not a douche."

"Let's agree to disagree. You enjoy yourself, young lady. Use protection. I don't need siblings."

"And I don't need any more headaches. You lock up if you go out." She prances across the floor, unnecessarily crossing between Dean and the television.

He pointedly keeps his eyes glued to the screen.

"Both locks." she says, as if they have anything valuable to protect.

"Got it." He watches the TV until the door closes behind her.

Then he picks up his phone and writes:

DS: You tell me your daddy drama, I'll tell you mine.

It is not an offer Dean makes lightly. It is not something he discusses with anybody. Ever. What makes Sam so special, he isn't sure. Maybe it's because he's not really there in the room, with that pitying look in his eye that people always get when they hear a sob story. Dean doesn't give people the chance to give him that look or to try to psychoanalyze him. He keeps his goddamn sob story to himself. Usually.

SW: How was your day?

Sam Winchester. King of the subject change.

DS: Sprained my stupid fucking ankle in practice.  
DS: Otherwise, crap. How about you?  
SW: OK  
DS: I guarantee my dad is a worse nightmare than yours

Radio silence. Not another peep from Sam.

Dean forces himself to only check his phone at commercial breaks. He finally stuffs the thing under his pillow and let himself be lulled to sleep by Space Ghost. The hornets in his dream turn out to actually be the pillow buzzing, which turns out to be a message from Sam.

SW: Hey  
DW: Hey  
SW: You up?  
DS: No  
SW: Tell me about your dad

Dean squints at the phone. "It's fucking 4 in the morning, you psycho."

DS: Not much to tell.  
DS: He makes your dad look like Chalupa.  
DS: Knocked up my mother when she was 13.  
DS: Tried to kill us  
DS: All around winner  
SW: Geez  
DS: Yeah

Dean takes a long drink from the beer he'd left unfinished on the floor beside the couch. "That was fun."

DS: Going back to sleep

SW: The thing with my da

Sam is in the middle of typing when Castiel reaches over his shoulder and snatches the phone away. "Who are you texting at this hour, you sneaky fuck?"

He smacks Sam's ear with it and then bounces away from his reach. "Uh-uh. I want to know who this bitch is."

Castiel holds the phone over his head, which puts it just above Sam's eye level. Sam grabs his wrist, but Cas deftly drops it into his free hand. Then, he jabs it into Sam's throat and waltzes away.

For a few minutes, Sam truly believes that he is going to die. He gasps like a fresh caught fish: doubled over in pain, clutching his likely crushed voice box. He laments that he won't get to explain to Dean, wonders who'll get his work load or tell his parents.

Eventually, Sam manages to pull a wheeze of air through his aching larynx. While he struggles to pull himself together, Castiel amuses himself with the messages on Sam's phone.

"God, this kid is fucked up. Poor little sphinx." Castiel giggles. "How do you think his daddy did it? Let's see. How would I kill my kid? I think I would either drown it in the tub or back over it while it's riding its big wheel?"

"Come on, Cas." Sam croaks and reaches out for the phone. "He's having some trouble."

Castiel narrows his eyes. "Too bad for him. Come to bed."

"In a minute."

"Now." Castiel flings the phone. It shatters against the balcony door. "Now, Sam."


	11. Chapter 11

Dean flings a sporkful of mashed potatoes across the table at Ash. Everybody around them cracks up laughing, except for Jo. She shakes her head and calls them juveniles. Ash wipes the mess off his forehead and vows vengeance with a spork pointed at Dean's face.

Dean's phone buzzes and he holds up a finger to pause the battle.

SW: Hey sorry about that. Broke my phone

"Yeah, right." Dean grumbles out loud.

Ash loads up with turkey hash. "Who is that, Smith? Your girlfriend?"

Jo squirms in her seat. Dean treats Ash to a spinning display of his middle finger. "It's your mother. She wanted to remind me to bring a fresh pack of rubbers tonight."

The kids around the table get a kick out of that one. Dean types a response. There's no point calling Sam on his bullshit.

DS: What'd you do? Drop it in the can?  
SW: Something like that.  
SW: Look. I can't really talk right now. Work.  
SW: Just wanted to let you know I got a new one  
SW: Maybe we can talk tonight.  
DS: Got a game, so…  
SW: After?  
DS: Maybe  
SW: Play well

Dean takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes. 'Fuck. This. Guy.'

Ash laughs. "You gonna cry? What'd she do, dump you?"

"Fuck you, Ash. I'm the best bang your mom's had in her life." Dean flicks his spork.

For a welcome change, there is peace in the place. Castiel drank himself to sleep and is slobbering on the pillow. Sam stands over him for a moment. He swipes an errant lock of pitch black hair from his ashen forehead. The tip of his finger traces over the blue wing on Cas' pale shoulder. It's the most ironic tattoo Sam has ever seen. He closes the door quietly behind himself and steps into the hall.

With a glass of red wine and Chopin playing sweetly, he eases onto the sofa. Chalupa prances over and curls up, warming one of Sam's feet. He grins down at the dog. One more glance over his shoulder before he taps on the screen of his phone.  
-No new messages.

Sam always feels strange about initiating the conversation, like he's being lame or bothersome, or creepy, but Dean always writes back, so...

SW: How'd it go? SW: Bet you won this one, didn't you?

Sam closes his eyes and lets the music and the wine sink sweetly into his skin. A little over an hour later, he checks the phone.  
\- No new messages.

If Dean is still annoyed with him about the phone thing, Sam doesn't know what else he can do. He had gone out on his lunch break to replace it and texted him the second the thing was functional.

SW: Hey.  
SW: After game party?

At 1:13 AM, he awakes again, yawns and sees that Dean still hasn't written back. Sam massages the back of his neck and decides some fresh air would be good.

It's crisp out on the balcony and it does help to clear his head a little.

His mind is clear enough to realize that it is insane to have any expectations of this kid, whatsoever. They've been exchanging a handful of texts every day for nearly two weeks. Just because it's become so important to Sam doesn't mean that is mutual. What it means is that Sam is a freak who needs to get his life together. That's not exactly a newsflash.

He should have known that eventually the boy would lose interest. After all, Dean was up front about what he wanted and Sam isn't turning out to be much of a Fuckbuddy. How could he be surprised or upset if Dean is bored with him? Sam massages the ache in the center of his chest hurts and wipes his hand over his dry mouth.

This is a clear sign. This is Dean telling Sam to stop bothering him. Sam should be adult enough to take a hint and leave the kid alone. Instead, he writes.

SW: Cool if I call?

On the third ring, a woman answers, "Dean Smith's personal answering service. What can I do for you, Sam?"

It must be Dean's mother. It's the middle of the night. Sam drops his forehead in his hand. He could ditch the call, like a freaking teenager. She already knows who it is. That would just be worse. "Um, Mrs. Smith?"

The woman snickers. "Oh no, honey." Her syrupy, southern accent drips through the phone. "This is Ellen Harvelle. I'm a nurse over at General. I'm talking to Sam, right? Dean's friend?"

Sam grips the steel railing. "Is he okay?"

"Oh, he'll be fine."

"He took a hit." Sam says rather than asks.

"Pretty good one, apparently. I tell you, that boy was dizzy as a bat. He hasn't stopped talking about you since they brought him in here."

Dean was talking about him? It's not really the time to dwell on that, but the thought sends a warm rush through Sam. "What did he say?"

"He wanted me to send you a message, but I don't mess around with that texting nonsense. My grandkids do it constantly, but my eyes are too bad. I told Dean it could either wait or that if it was important, you would call. He said you would never call and here you are - calling."

Sam huffs. "Is he nearby?"

"Well, right now, he's down having his cat scanned. Technically, I'm not supposed to answer patients' phones, but I knew he'd want you to know. Why don't you call back and leave a message?"

"Can you give me any idea what his doctor said?"

"Not really allowed to do that, but I tell you what, Sam. That kid is Ford tough. Came in here joking around. Said he felt like a piñata." She laughs. "Usually when they're talking as much as he was, I assume they'll live. Just call him back, honey. Give it about an hour or two. But don't let him talk too long."

Sam paces the balcony. The wind whips cold, battering his skin. He can't go there. It isn't like Sam could get into the car and drive to General in the middle of the night. He can't just go see some kid who probably doesn't even want him there anyway. Even if Dean did, only immediate family is permitted to visit at this hour. "Thank you."

"Sure thing, honey. He'll be fine, Sam."

He thanks her again and huffs a small laugh.

SW: Text me as soon as you get this.

Sam sits up on the sofa staring at the phone in his hands, as if that will make Dean's CT end faster. Eventually, he leans back, but can't bring himself to sleep. He scans over the titles on his shelf. Tries to read a book, but can't focus on the words. Over an hour later, his phone buzzes against his chest. Sam snatches it up and opens the message. It's blank. Sam's lips tremble. Then, he smiles. SW: Still alive huh?  
DS: Y  
SW: Dangerous game, football  
DS: 1  
SW: They must have assessed you as a threat. That's when they hit harder. Start playing reckless. You must have been kicking ass  
SW: How you feeling?  
DS: ShT

Sam laughs out loud at that, then covers his mouth.

SW: Staring at the screen probably doesn't help  
DS: U  
SW: Me? What?  
DS: U gwko  
SW: Yeah. You should probably get some rest

Sam snaps a photo of himself smiling. Then, he takes one of himself blowing a kiss. After spending way too long puzzling over them, he sends the second one.

SW: For your forehead.

He deletes it all from his phone, powers down and goes to bed.

Sam doesn't sleep, though. He can't sleep. He wants to go to Dean so badly it makes him twitch. Every cell in his body yearns to be in that hospital holding that kid's hand, making sure the doctors are doing everything they can, kissing him for real.

Instead, Sam lays next to Castiel. He squeezes his stinging eyes shut and folds his lips into his mouth.

Dean rolls over, opens and quickly shuts his eyes again. The sunlight is brutal. His skull is full of soup. Blindly, he gropes for the remote. One button makes the bed lurch, groan and lay back flat. A different one sits him upright. He finds the button for the TV and listens to the Family Feud.

When the show is over, he tries to peer through his lashes. Still too bright. His head screams at him for trying. His eyes buzz. He forces them open long enough to find his phone. Much longer, he's going to hurl.

Looking at the picture of Sam is a cruel torment, in every sense of the word.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to open them wider. It hurts like fuck. Hurts his face, hurts his foggy brain. There's a sharp twinge in his chest that's worse than the other pain. The headache and the nausea remind him that he's a wounded warrior. That other thing just makes him feel weak.

He stares at the photo until his lips began to curl up and quake. A tear threatens to break from the corner of his vibrating eye. His nostrils flare. "You're fucking with me, aren't you?"

She's pretty. Of course, she is. Sam blinks at the photo of a dark haired girl with huge bosoms popping out of a tight, low cut top. She leans against a locker and waves coyly at the camera. Sam looks at her for what feels like a long time. She is really pretty.

In the next cubicle, his coworker takes no notice of him whatsoever. She continues working with her head down. Sam searches all around the office. He knows most of their names and nothing about them. He goes to work. He comes home. He doesn't talk to anyone. He doesn't go out, in order to keep Castiel happy, which doesn't work anyway. All it does is add to his own endless isolation.

If Sam were on a raft in the middle of the ocean, Castiel would be the water and the sharks and that's fine. Sam has let Dean become his raft, which is only slightly better than drowning. That was a mistake. He can see that now. Sitting at his desk, looking at this picture of this pretty girl, Sam is beginning to see how stupid he's been.

SW: I think maybe you sent this to the wrong person  
DS: No way, man. Wanted you to see what I'm doing tonight  
SW: Why are you telling me this?  
DS: Just shooting the shit, bro.  
SW: OK  
DS: We're friends, right?  
SW: Of course  
DS: I'm guessing you're more into blondes, with your mom and Jo  
SW: I got to go.  
SW: Have fun  
DS: Yeah. I will


	12. Chapter 12

Castiel pirouettes around the living room. His back arches. His arms rises over his head as the oboes began to swell.

Sam tromps darkly across the room, but not fast enough. Cas twirls and grabs Sam's hands for support before he dips all the way back. His head practically touches the floor. He raises a leg and flexes his toes straight at the ceiling. "Did I ever tell you about how I landed Show Boat right after my agent changed my stage name to Angel Caido?"

Of course, Castiel had told him this story, on multiple occasions. With his basic Spanish, Sam has always found the name every bit as ironic as his tattoo.

"She passed me off as a Miami-born Cuban for five years. It was genius. I had never had so much work. And there, my boy, is the soft underbelly of white privilege. All before your time, Sammy. All before I found my own angel."

Castiel rights himself and drapes his arms around Sam's neck. He nips at Sam's unshaven chin.

Sam purses his lips, stares ahead and allows Castiel to hang there. Cas reaches down to drag Sam's arms around his waist. Sam lets them drop again. "I'm just trying to get breakfast."

"Dance with me, Sammy," Castiel whines.

Sam rolls his eyes and diverts them out of the glass door to the balcony.

Castiel shoves him away. "What's with you these days? You were always dull. Now, you're just pathetic."

Castiel mocks Sam with a clownish frown. Chalupa yelps as Cas kicks her in the ribs.

Sam steps between Castiel and the dog. "Stop it."

"Make me."

Sam scoops the little dog up under his arm and trudges to the kitchen. It's been a few days since he's eaten much of anything. He has to force something down so that he doesn't pass out.

Jo approaches Dean's locker, cautious and slow, like a trainer moving toward a young lion. "Hey. You feeling any better?"

He just glares at her and hopes to God she'll go away without him having to tell her to.

"A few of us are going fishing this weekend."

"Good for you."

She jumps out of the way when he slams the door shut. "All you had to do was say you didn't want to come. You know, you have turned into a complete dick."

Dean sneers sharply. "How would you know, Princess? When's the last time you ever saw a dick?"

It's been a week. An entire week since he last heard from Sam. And it shouldn't be a problem. He's gotten laid. They had won their last two games. Both had been close calls, but once Dean had his head in it, they had come around. He should be good. Should be over the godamn moon, but he feels like dried up horse shit.

Yesterday, he ripped Garth a new one for bringing him a coke. He regretted it after the fact, but done is done. Dean doesn't want to be mean to Jo; he just wants her to leave him the fuck alone. In the moment it takes her to recover, he stalks away.

She has to jog to keep up with his pace as he forces his way through the crowded hall. "What is going on with you?"

Jo excuses herself left and right but somehow manages to keep up. "If you don't want to talk to me, talk to my dad. He can help you, whatever it is."

Dean scoffs. "You really believe that, don't you?"

She touches his arm, trying to get him to slow down. "My mom said to tell you to come by for-"

"Not interested."

"If this is how you act when you have a winning streak, I hope you lose every game for the rest of the season."

Dean laughs out loud at that. "Yeah. I'm sure your daddy feels the same way."

"Dean, would you please…"

He stops so abruptly that she has to turn back around to face him.

"You're not my girlfriend, Jo. What is your deal?" Dean's jaw is clenched so tight he might crack a tooth.

She gasps like he just punched her in the stomach. Then she murmurs. "I'm just trying to be your friend."

Dean bangs his fist against a locker. A crowd of people stop what they're doing and turn to stare at them. "I don't need any more fucking friends."

Sam stares at the cursor blinking on his screen. He has been watching it for the last twenty minutes. He doesn't have the mental or physical energy for anything else.

Dean can't believe the rush he gets from beating the shit out of an inanimate object. Caleb's red pickup truck was a rusted out piece of crap before Dean ever took the Winchester's baseball bat to it. He had never really gotten into baseball, but the crunch of wood striking against metal sends a tremor exploding down his whole body. The crack and splatter of demolishing glass is like heaven. Every time the bat connects is almost better than fucking.

He bashes all the windows first. Next, he goes for the headlights and the taillights. Then, he beats the crap out of that stupid fucking license plate: SMPR F.

"Semper fuck you."

By the time Caleb comes running out of McGinty's, Dean has half stomped the fender off. A small crowd of drunken shitheads hollers for Dean like he's Babe Ruth in the World Series. 'Fuck them.'

At first, Dean doesn't see Caleb. He just hears a rebel yell over the mob. He turns in time to see the guy charging right for him. His brain doesn't even register the attack. Instinct kicks in and Dean hits a fucking home run with the guy's chin.

The dull thud of wood on bone is an entirely different sensation from hitting aluminum or glass. It makes Dean a little sick to his stomach. Caleb spins on his heels like a cartoon character. Dean doesn't even see him go down because he's too busy running like hell.

Dean doesn't slow down until he slams the door and bolts every lock behind him. He leans against it, panting like he's just run 4 miles, because he fucking has. This is the first time he sees that the tip of the bat is bloody. He tosses the thing on the floor just to get it out of his hands.

He shrugs out of his hoodie and stoops to wrap it around the bat. Then, he shoves the whole package under the sink just as Jody stumbles into the kitchen. Dean closes the cabinet door and stands to face her.

"Where have you been, you little shit?" Her left eye is puffed all the way shut. The bruise on her cheek is a dark purple now.

Without actually touching the discolored skin, he cups her face in his hand. "It's worse."

She leans away. "Where did you go?"

"Had to take care of something." His breath is finally returning to normal, even if his mind is still racing like crazy. He grabs himself a beer from the fridge.

"Is that the last one?"

Dean pops the can. "Yes, it is, and I'm fucking well going to drink it."

Jody marches over and tries to pry it away from him. He effortlessly holds her back with one hand while he turns his head up to drink with the other. She gripes and swats and eventually manages to knock the beer from his hand.

Dean gapes down at the liquid spilling out onto his shoes and all over the floor. "You know why only assholes want you? Because you're a fucking bitch."

Her hand connects so hard, so loud across his face that it stuns them both. When Dean was a little kid, Jody would lift him by his collar and give a good shake if he begged too loud in the dollar store. She would hold her face an inch away from his and hiss threats between her bared teeth when he wasn't walking fast enough. This is the first time she's ever hit him. Neither of them seems to know what to do about it.

Finally, Jody strokes the reddening skin on his cheek. The touch burns, too, but Dean doesn't turn away. The expression on her face is pitiful and sweet. She kind of looks like a mom. "What did you do?"

"I should have fucking killed him." Dean drops his face onto her neck.

His mother rubs his back, cooing softly, "It's okay, baby. It's okay."

Sam rubs his eyes. He tries to focus on the screen. The calculator clicks as he feeds in more numbers. Suddenly, he gets that eerie feeling of being watched.

Castiel stands in the door frame with the handle of a rolling suitcase in one hand. A tapestry bag full of Chi-poo hangs off the other arm. "You don't even look at me anymore."

Sam gawks up at him, unsure of how to respond.

"It's clear that you don't want me. It's been like this for months, Sam. Maybe longer. I don't know. How long has it been since I satisfied you? Since you were happy with me? You don't have anything to say, do you?"

Sam only blinks. He doesn't dare break the spell by saying something that might make Cas stay.

"You know what? Fuck you, Sam." Castiel's voice is perfectly serene.

He doesn't even slam the front door when he leaves.

Sam blinks a few times and picks up his cell phone. He hasn't heard from Dean in nearly two weeks. He puts it back down and continues his work.

There's a patrol car parked out front of the school. Dean glances around the parking lot and starts walking backward in the direction he had come. Once he's in the woods, he turns and bolts.

The bell over the door of the salon dings when he slinks in. Every head in the shop turns to watch him enter.

"Hi, um. Is my mom here?"

"Jody!" The lady working at the first chair shouts without taking her eyes from his face.

"Dean? That you, darlin'?" The familiar rasp of Mildred's voice almost puts him at ease.

Dean's buddy is all the way across the room with her head leaned back over a sink, so she doesn't see him wave. "Hey."

"What are you doing out of school?"

Before Dean can think of an answer, another woman waddles right up to him and pinches his chin between thick fingers. Mag, the owner of the shop, is a short, stout slug of a Puerto Rican lady with a mustache and a salt-and-pepper beehive. Her dry and calloused fingertips scrape loudly over his cheekbones. "Would you look at this child? Jody, no way this came outta you."

"Up yours, Maggie." Jody carries a plastic bin full of nail polish from the back room. She has makeup caked all over her face. From where he's standing, Dean can't even see how busted up she is.

Despite being in a good position to be guillotined, Mildred chimes in her agreement. "Doesn't he look like he was hand chiseled by angels?"

Dean has heard it all before, but he's never really gotten used to old ladies creaming their Depends over him. He suffers the compliments with what could be a smile but isn't.

Jody opens her palms as if presenting him to the world. "There you go. That should be your Indian name. Don't you have school, 'Chiseled By Fucking Angels'?"

"Didn't feel like it today." He shoots her a loaded glance.

He doesn't have to do any more explaining. They've run from enough trouble to know the look.  
She nods and hands him a broom. "Well, then, you better make yourself useful, Gorgeous."

On his break, Sam steps outside. A few of his coworkers are smoking. They look him over curiously, but no one says a word. He has no idea where to start. After working at this firm for two years, he has never said more than the obligatory 'hi' or 'bye' to any of them.

So, Sam hunches up his shoulders against the drizzle. He steps back under the awning to keep his phone from getting wet.

Dean has pumped up his mother's chair as high as it will go so that his feet dangle over the edge. He lounges, eating a sandwich, while Mag brushes his hair back from his forehead. It feels so good he can't even be ashamed of himself- not even when Jody shakes her head at him. "Maggie, do you have any idea what kind of monster you're creating?"

"You really ought to pamper him more, Jody." Mag smooths her hand over Dean's hair.

"Why on earth would I do that? He's practically an adult. He ought to get a job and start pampering me."

Dean's jacket hangs on the coat rack by the door. When the pocket buzzes he just eyeballs it, like it might be a whole hive of pissed off bees.

"That your phone? You can go ahead and get it, sweetheart." Mag sets the brush aside.

Dean sighs and goes to get the thing. He groans and makes a face at the screen. He didn't ever think he'd hear from this asshole again.

SW: How you been?

He puts the phone facedown on the countertop. All the old women have gone back to work. His mother is the youngest by thirty years or so, but she fits right in. He smiles, watching her wash their hair or paint their nails. Jody shoots the shit or listens to them babble about their grandkids. It reminds him of when he was a little kid, curled up under her work station with a comic book and Gram, that nasty, filthy stuffed dog he used to love so much. 'What ever happened to that thing?'

"Where are you?" Mildred rests her freshly manicured hand on his shoulder.

Her hair looks the same as before: spiky and carrot colored. It totally suits her. It'd be a shame if she ever changed it. She grins like the Mona Lisa, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know. Just…" Dean stammers and shrugs.

Mildred's head inclines toward the phone. "You going to answer?"

Dean picks up the phone again and thumbs in response.

DS: OK.

Then, he puts it back down. It buzzes again in less than a minute.

SW: Been a while

Dean flings the phone and his sandwich onto the foil on the counter in front of him. It takes a lot to ruin his appetite. This conversation has done it.

"You really like her, huh?"

Dean shakes his head no. He sees no reason to correct the pronoun. Mildred smiles. Dean stares at a wall and growls the confession through clenched teeth. "A little."

"That bad?" Mildred's skin creases even more to make this concerned expression.

"It's fucking torture, Mil." He speaks quietly because he knows the rest of the old ladies would lose it to hear him swear.

"Then, don't worry about anything else. If she likes you back, it'll be good. If she doesn't, at least you'll know."

Dean picks his stupid phone back up and sighs.

SW: How's it going with your girl?  
DS: Done  
SW: That's too bad. How come we stopped talking?  
DS: IDK

"Because you were fucking around with my head," Dean hisses out loud to the phone, as if he were holding Sam in his hand.

One of ladies clucks, "Language."

"Sorry," he grumbles.

Mildred laughs - not at him, but close by.

SW: I miss it  
SW: Miss you

Dean squints at his screen. "No, thank you. Not again, you fucker." His head snaps up to the old woman who'd just scolded him. "Sorry."

He starts to thumb in a message, but Sam is quicker.

SW: Would you send me a pic?  
SW: Of you

Dean isn't sure what to make of that. He winces at the phone.

SW: Waist-up  
SW: Shoulders up  
SW: Fully clothed  
DS: What for?  
SW: I can't exactly remember what you look like  
SW: I'd like to see you

Dean hates it. He hates how fucking bunched up his guts feel. Hates how much he wants this to mean Sam wants him. For that reason alone, he puts the phone down on the counter again and walks away from it.

"Dean," Mildred calls, but he can't deal with her now.

Can't deal with any of this.

He plods over to the front window. Watches cars pass for a while. He gets a quarter from Mag and buys himself a stale gumball from the machine by the door. From all the way across the shop, he contemplates his phone.

The phone isn't the problem. Sam isn't the problem. Dean, himself, acting like a lovesick little bitch is the problem. He finally comes to a conclusion: fuck it. It's a pic. Not doing it is stupider than doing it.

Dean snaps a selfie, but it looks like shit. So he erases it and tries another one with a smile. It's worse. He cozies up next to Mag behind the counter. "What do you think of this one?"

"You look constipated. Jody, come help this boy take a decent picture."

Jody gives him the finger and goes on clipping pins into her customer's hair.

Mildred is having her feet done now. She reaches out and motions to him with her fingers. She takes his phone, but still beckons. She wants him to lean down so she can tousle his hair. "Girls want you to look a little wild and dirty nowadays. God knows why. It's what they like."

Mag bellows, "That is true. That Robert Patterson boy. From the Twilight trilogy. Messy messy messy. That Justin Bieber. Used to be so clean and nice. Look at him now, with all the tattoos."

Dean groans at being compared to that dirtbag.

"The girls don't like nice anymore. They want dirty. You give 'em dirty."

Dean is somewhere between a smile and vomit. "Should I go roll in the mud?"

"Don't be a smart-ass." Mildred snaps a few shots.

She scrolls through and suggests one where Dean doesn't look like a self-absorbed spazz or a constipated, nervous moron.

"You look nice," she says.

It isn't half bad. He sends that photo to Sam.

"You be sweet to her, hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

It's Mildred's turn to grimace. "Don't you ever call me that."

"Ma'am?" Jody crows, mocking him as she comes back in from the back room. "Who are you and what have you done with my heathen?"

Dean smirks at her just as the phone vibrates in his hand.

"She like it?" Mag's penciled in eyebrows raise.

Every woman in the shop stops - all the customers, every stylist, even his mother. They pause to hear his answer. Dean takes a deep breath and looks down at his phone.

SW: Jesus.  
SW: And you call me beautiful?

He subdues his smile and nods to his anxious audience.

The old ladies whoop and shout like Dean just ran in for a touchdown. Mildred and Mag give each other a high five. Dean laughs and takes his phone out to the front of the building for some privacy.

SW: I could be wrong, but I recall you look even better in person

"Don't tease me, Sam," he murmurs out loud to himself.

SW: Would it be okay if I come by and confirmed that sometime?

 _\- Author's Note: Thanks for keeping up with the boys so far. The story becomes NC-17 after this point. Please feel free to follow the rest over at AO3_

 _/works/9566213/chapters/21631142_


	13. Chapter 13

Even from the hallway, it's awful. All the honking and squeaking makes it sound like they're slaughtering every animal in the zoo at the same time. A few eyes perk up when Dean enters. A respectful hush falls over the band room as if he's the fucking President of the United States or something. Nerds can be so dramatic.

Dean ignores them and saunters over to Jo with his hands folded behind his back. She finishes assembling her flute. Unlike the other band geeks, she appears unfazed by the fact that everyone in the room is watching them.

He clears his throat before he admits, "I was an asshole."

She arranges her music without looking up, "Yes. You have been an asshole for some time now."

Dean nods and presents the peace offering. This orange flower is the only thing still blooming in Mildred's yard. It doesn't smell like much other than sweet dirt, but it'll have to do. He produces it from behind his back. It has wilted a little since this morning, but that makes it look like it's bowing. He reaches over and tucks it behind Jo's ear. If at all possible, the room becomes even quieter. He whispers, for Jo's ears only, "I'm sorry."

She peers up at him; mouth parted in awe. This is the moment when Dean realizes how big of a mistake the whole gesture probably is. There have to be ways to apologize to Jo that don't reduce her to a blathering stupor.

The band leader's tap on the podium snaps most of the students from their trance. Jo, however, is a lost cause. She still gapes at Dean like he's made of gold. Not what he was going for.

"Are you joining the band, Mr. Smith?"

He stands upright, "No ma'am, I am not." Electric guitar or drums, he'd consider learning. Marching band? Hats with mohawks? Not a chance.

"Then, we will see you at the game."

Dean nods to Jo and splits, hoping he hasn't messed things up worse.

Garth is huffing and puffing by the time catches up to Dean in the hallway. He leans on his knees to catch his breath. Dean can't help but grin at the goofy, little fuck. Garth gasps, "Coach is looking for you."

Dean taps - shave and a haircut - before turning the knob. Coach Winchester stands motions for Dean to take a seat. The old man folds his arms behind his back. "In the recipe for success, there is one ingredient that is more important that talent, Dean. Do you know what that is?"

Dean keeps his eyes from rolling by focusing on the coach's stern face. "No, sir."

"Commitment."

Dean doesn't put up with a tongue lashing from many people, but he bites his own to keep from talking back. Over the next half hour, Coach Winchester unloads on him about natural ability and crappy upbringings. Yada yada. He gives Dean the blues for being an insufferable asshole the last few weeks. Dean's been passing out apologies like candy, anyway. What's one more for the coach?

"Accepted. Now, last night you left your team in a lurch. So far as I can tell, you weren't ill or anything. Just chose not to show up. Correct me if I'm wrong."

Dean rolls his lips together but doesn't speak. What is he going to say? 'Sorry, Coach. I couldn't come to the game because I couldn't come to school, because I was avoiding the five-o, because I had just beaten the crap out of my mother's latest piece of shit boyfriend, because that's the fucking story of my life.'

Then, Coach Winchester hits him with last night's score: 27 to 3. According to the old man, they lost because of shit morale due to Dean's absence. It's a load of bull, but Dean's in no position to argue when he's wearing a pair of sneakers the coach bought and paid for. His other ones were busted to hell. So, when the coach tells him he's going to be running for the entire practice, Dean responds with a crisp, "Yes, sir."

"You got a problem with that?" Coach practically spits the words in his face.

It's a classic case of a good deed being thoroughly punished. Dean had tried to do the right thing and was having his ass handed to him. He couldn't just let some bastard get away with hurting Jody. Dean considers asking the coach how he would deal with this sort of thing. Instead, he just says, "No, sir."

"And you're going to run until I get sick of watching it. Now, get the fuck out of my face."

"Yes, sir."

Sunday, noon, the bell rings up at the Methodist church. Dean drags himself off the track, feeling like a grade-A asshole. 'Fucking idiot loser.' He calls himself every insult he can think of. He should have known that Sam wasn't going to show. This whole thing is just another way for him to fuck with Dean's head.

He pulls one heel to his glute to stretch out his tense right quad. Right here and now, he decides that he is going to block Sam's number from his phone. Yeah, it's a bitch move, but he's tired of this shit. Tired of going for a guy who doesn't have the decency to show up or cancel when they make plans.

All of a sudden there Sam is, strolling towards him. Every bit as fucking sexy as Dean remembers. If possible, a little more. His hands are jammed in the pockets of a tan jacket. Those thin hips and the long ass legs. Shoulders for days. God. Damn.

Dean's stupid stomach starts fluttering. He clamps down on that shit on the spot. No way he's going to do the whole butterflies thing. He is not going to let some guy make him into a nervous, stuttering female. Not even one this hot.

He drops his foot from the stretch and refuses even to let himself smile. As a matter of fact, he takes a moment to school his face into a scowl. "When'd you get here?"

"A few minutes before you." Sam's voice is so quiet; Dean has to lean forward to hear him clearly.

The guy isn't making any effort to hide his amusement with the situation. Those fucking dimples are going to put Dean in his grave. "I thought we were both running."

Sam grins on, still sounding like he's whispering for some reason. "We said to meet at the track. I don't run unless I'm being chased."

"I'll have to remember that." Asshole.

"You looked good, though. Good form." Sam's tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Dean mirrors the action, without even thinking about it.

"You could probably use a shower. Maybe a homemade smoothie?"

Dean wonders whether Sam always talks like this. Not quite like Mr. Rogers, but so soft and careful it makes Dean a little nervous.

He thinks, 'A smoothie. Seriously?' Out loud, he says, "How could a guy possibly say no to a smoothie?"

Hard to believe it, but Dean is riding beside a former NFL draft pick in a fucking five-year-old, dust gray Prius. Dean doesn't say anything. Why kill the moment and tell Sam what he has to already know? This car isn't a piece of shit, exactly. It's just boring as hell. Spotless, though, with one of those pine scented trees dangling from the rear view mirror. Artificial pine clashes with Sam's cologne and Dean's sweat.

Dean reaches out to turn on the car stereo. "You mind?"

"Go for it."

Some kind of classical music blasts through the stereo. Dean's eyes widen. "This your thing?"

"You can change it."

"No, it's cool." Dean never heard anything like this outside of an elevator.

He tries to figure out why someone would listen to this on purpose. He watches Sam drive. The guy's hands are fucking huge. Long fingers tap along to the music as if there's a beat. Dean asks, "What is this, like, Mozart or something?"

Sam gives a tight little grin that Dean just wants to lick.

"Um, it's Edward Elgar, actually. One of my favorite pieces. It psyches me up for … you know … whatever." Sam's voice is low and smooth and still uncomfortably gentle.

Dean can get used to it. "This pumps you up?"

Sam snickers. And there's that smile again. "Yeah, it does. Psyches me up, calms me down. Multifunctional."

"I think it's putting me to sleep."

"I'm seriously fine if you want to change it." He glances at Dean, just barely. Doesn't really meet his eyes for more than a second, like he doesn't want to be caught looking. "What do you like?"

Dean shrugs and turns the music down. "Rock, mostly. Rap's okay. Anything with a beat. But this is cool. It's … different."

They are quiet for a while, letting the cellos fill the space between them. Dean's hands itch to touch him. He rubs them against his sweatpants to keep them busy.

"I saw in the paper you won your game last night."

Dean's entire body goes stiff. "What do you mean?"

Sam looks over at him. "They always list the scores."

"Oh." Dean locks and unlocks the door. He winds down the window. He blurts out the only thing he can think of. "Nice ride."

"Inconspicuous, responsible and reliable."

Dean can't argue with that. He also can't think of anything else to say. His palms are sweating. Now, he's rubbing them over sweatpants to keep them dry.

Sam watches Dean's hands. "Are you sure you're okay with this? You seem … "

"I'm good." Dean always gets a little uneasy when he knows he's going to get fucked. It doesn't happen that often anymore and it has been a while.

Still, he's game. He's totally game. As if to prove it to Sam and himself, Dean rests a hand on Sam's warm thigh. Just like that, Dean is starting to tent his sweats.

The muscles in Sam's leg tightens under Dean's palm. He glances down and then, trains his eyes back onto the road. "I could just take you home."

"Sam. I'm good."

Dean slides his grip up and grabs Sam's package. Not hard or anything, but still Sam gasps. He tenses and slams his foot on the brake. Dean lurches forward. His cheek crashes against on the windshield. The driver behind them lays on the horn as their car screeches around Sam's Prius.

"Sorry." Sam gets the car rolling at the speed limit again.

Dean rights himself in his seat. "I should probably buckle up."

"I'm sorry. I thought … maybe we could … Some people get to know each other a little first." Sam rubs the back of his neck.

He's blushing. Dean chuckles to himself and thinks, 'Straight guys.' Out loud, he says, "Sure. Okay. How do you want to do that?"

"I don't know. Talk?"

"Okay."

Sam nods. "Okay. Why don't you ask me anything? Nothing's off limits."

"Okay … Um, who's your favorite superhero?"

Sam pulls a sour looking face.

"Not good?"

"Not really one of my areas of expertise. It was never really my thing." He shrugs, apologetically.

"Well, we can talk about something else."

"No, I just … Don't laugh at me if I don't know something." Sam peeks at Dean from the corner of his eye.

"I wouldn't do that. Just pick one."

"Superman?"

Dean looks out of the passenger window to hide his grimace.

"No? So, who's your favorite?" Sam flicks on his turn signal.

"Caped Crusader, hands down."

"Oh. I don't think I've heard of him." Sam frowns.

Dean's eyes pop nearly out of his skull. "You haven't heard of Batman? You're kidding me, right?"

"Oh, Batman. I thought …" Sam closes his eyes for a brief moment. "You said … Okay, so, Batman is better than Superman?"

Dean shuts off the radio. "Absolutely. First of all, aliens are automatically disqualified. That removes Superman, Thor and a whole mess of other guys from the discussion."

"Why are we removing aliens?"

"I mean, because, come on. For one thing, aliens don't exist." Dean says like it should be the most obvious explanation on earth.

Sam grins. "Unlike superheroes."

"Do you want me to explain this or what?"

"Sorry." Sam folds his lips in to keep from laughing. Dean pokes him in his right dimple. "No, seriously, please. Continue."

"Well, for another thing, Bruce Wayne is super rich and super smart."

"How is that better than Ironman?"

Dean sucks his teeth, offended, "Oh, so you know about Ironman, but you don't know who the Caped Crusader is?"

"All I know about Ironman is that he's some super rich smart guy." Sam cranes his neck, waiting for the traffic to clear before he merges.

"Tony Stark is a complete douche. I'll give him credit, because, similar to Bruce Wayne, his greatest superpower is his intelligence, which is indisputably badass. But little kids can't look up to Tony Stark. You put Tony Stark in a room with a bunch of little kids, he'll start passing out shots. Besides which, he's hiding behind a suit. Dark Knight faces danger head on."

"In a mask?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Well, he's got to protect his identity."

"Of course." Sam nods solemnly.

"Also, integrity."

Sam looks at Dean with what appears to be sincere interest.

Dean counts off attributes on his fingers now. "He's fucking honest. He stands up for what he believes in and he doesn't kill, even though he could. Easily. But, the most important thing you need to remember about Batman is that he's just a guy. He's not perfect. He's not invincible. He had some messed up shit happen to him. He tries to make sense of it. At the end of his story, he dies, just like the rest of us. Now, you know. It's Batman. Every time."

"You've given this some thought."

"I like Batman." Dean smiles and then, laughs.

"I can see that." Sam watches the road for a while.

Every so often, his gaze flickers back to Dean who finally just spits out, "What?"

"Your face. It's all red. Are you okay?" Sam's fingertips brush over the cheek that had hit the windshield.

Dean's skin still tingles from the touch, long after Sam's hand is back on the wheel. "Oh yeah. I've had worse."

"Dean." Sam purses his lips, searching for the right words." Are you looking for some kind of … Daddy?"

Dean barely manages to subdue his cringe. "Is that what you're into?"

"No."

"Thank God. No. I just want to hang out."

Sam nods. "Good."

"Cool."

Sam lets Dean enter the apartment first. He chuckles as the kid gives in to the temptation to touch everything he sees. He, accidentally, knocks a frame from the bookshelf and fumbles to keep it from crashing to the ground. After a few minutes, Dean smiles over his shoulder. "Nice place."

What Sam has gotten himself into, he is not sure. He just knows he has to stop looking at this kid. He isn't going to have any resolve left if he keeps it up. "Thanks. Um. Smoothies, right?"

"Sure." Dean drops his backpack on the sofa like it belongs there. "You read all these?" His shouted question floats into the kitchen.

"Most of them," Sam answers without raising his voice.

"You don't have a TV?"

"Um, no."

"How do you live? And where's Chalupa?"

Sam doesn't answer. Talk about the dog means talk about Castiel. He goes into the kitchen, assumes Dean is still getting acquainted with the place. He has just started collecting ingredients when the kid steps up beside him and humps Sam's leg like a horny puppy. Sam laughs uncomfortably and spills whey powder all over the marble countertop.

Sam salvages what he can before he reaches up to grab the stevia from the cabinet. Dean catches his arm, draws back the sleeve and examines the scar that runs along his wrist. "I didn't take you for the type."

Gently, Sam reclaims his arm and gets back to work on the drink. He knows the scar looks like an ineptly attempted suicide. "That's not what it is."

"So, what is it?"

"A long story."

Dean nods. "Some other time, then."

Sam spoons peanut butter into the blender. Dean busies himself with one palm on Sam's ass and the other on his crotch - all while slowly grinding against his leg. Flames shoot up Sam's spine and set off a sunburst in the center of his chest. He holds his breath and tries not to grind into the hand cupping his erection.

"God." The kid says, "I figured you'd be big, but fuck."

"Blueberries?" Sam's voice cracks.

Dean smiles and grips Sam's bicep. "Shit. Still pump, huh?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Man, that's nice." Dean leans into massaging his arm.

Sam tries to ease away, just to keep himself under control.

It doesn't matter. This kid is an octopus. He punches Sam's pec a few times, firmly, but with a tender edge to it. Then, his hand inches under Sam's shirt. He rubs down Sam's chest and abs. Dean tweaks his nipple and fire washes over Sam in waves. He can't remember the last time he'd felt so hot. So good.

This kid.

"You don't run at all anymore?"

Sam smiles and inches a little further away. "No. I was just kidding with you. I run a few times a week."

Dean flexes his arm and holds it under Sam's nose.

"Um. No, thanks." Sam does not want to put his hands anywhere on this kid because he is not sure he'll be able to stop if he starts.

But Dean insists until Sam finally gives his arm a light pinch. It's solid, like he expected, and it sends another surge to Sam's cock. His pants are already uncomfortably stretched. Sam nods in reluctant approval and returns his attention to his blender.

Dean grinds into Sam's thigh while casually loosening his belt. Sam's body sways into him and back away. Somehow, with the blood swiftly flowing away from his brain, Sam manages to ask, "Um, how old are you, Dean?"

"You changing the subject on me?" His voice is rough and warm, whispered up like that onto Sam's neck.

"I don't think so. I just think it's funny that we've known each other for over a month and I have no idea how old you are."

"Yeah. It's hilarious." Dean murmurs without a trace of amusement.

He flicks open Sam's button.

Sam stays his hand. "So?"

Dean gazes up with huge, dark pupils. "Would you sleep better tonight if I say 18?"

As Sam starts to stutter an answer, Dean slips to his knees and frees Sam from his pants.

"Jesus." The kid gulps.

His eyes grow wider. His hands are even smaller than Castiel's. One of them wraps around Sam's shaft, but just barely. And God, it feels so good, Sam's head falls back for a moment.

"Dean." He cups a hand under the boy's chin.

"I'm just … admiring." Dean shakes his head in wonder.

Sam licks his lips and lets the boy measure and assess him. Dean slides Sam's pants further down his thighs and frowns.

His palms smooth over the patchwork of healed stripes on Sam's skin. "What happened here?"

Sam's arousal falters, slightly. "Another long story."

"You got a lot of those." Dean traces one welt with his finger before leaning around to press his lips lightly to it.

"Dean, I don't…"

The kid laps up a bead of pre-come from the tip of Sam's cock. He groans and presses his hips forward toward that soft, warm tongue without meaning to. It is amazing, but it isn't what he wants. It isn't what Sam has been fantasizing about for the last month. He reaches down and grabs the kid by his armpits to hoist him to his feet.

Dean gasps, "Okay."

Sam licks his lips. He tentatively shadows a single finger over the outline of Dean's erection. "Is that okay?"

"What?" Dean looks down to see where Sam is nearly, but not quite touching him. "You're not going to break it, man. Just. Fuck. Touch me like you touch you."

Sam ghosts over the boy's crotch. Dean covers the cautious hand with his own. He holds it in place until they're both gasping for air. Sam falls to his knees and gazes up at Dean's beautiful face.

"Holy shit." He strokes Sam's hair back from his face.

"Can I?"

The boy nods and watches slack-jawed as Sam kisses his cock over the fabric of his pants. Slowly, Sam slips them down. "This is okay?"

Dean's hands clutch Sam's shoulders. "Shit, man. You're fucking killing me."

"You don't like it." Sam backs away, to keep Dean from getting upset. Castiel never tolerated Sam so much as looking at his arousal. Sam had figured Dean would be different.

Dean groans down at him. "Just fucking do it. Please."

"You want me to?" Sam is on the verge of tears with confusion.

"Sam. What the hell?" Dean strokes himself, his legs beginning to tremble.

"I just want you to be …"

Dean grabs a fistful of hair and drives his cock into Sam's still speaking mouth. "I'm sorry. Fuck."

Once he breaches Sam's lips, Dean drops both hands to his sides.

Here Sam is, kneeling on the cool slate floor of his kitchen with this pretty boy's pretty cock on his tongue. He surrenders a quiet sob and cranes his neck so he can peer up at Dean.

His eyes are squeezed shut, "Is it okay if I … "

Dean tucks his t-shirt under his chin and begins to move, carefully. He eases himself back and gingerly slides forward again. The muscles in his thighs twitch beneath Sam's fingers.

Sam loves every second of it, everything about it. He wants to dwell in this temple every day of his life. His jaw forced wide. The slide of hot skin and the firm fullness filling his mouth. And, God, the smell of him. Musky, spicy, filthy. It is better than Sam ever dreamed.

He hums his appreciation and hopes it will be even half as good for Dean. The kid pats his head. "You want to stop?"

Sam grips Dean's cock and pulls off with a wet plop, "No."

If he could spend the rest of his life with his face in Dean's crotch, Sam would die a happy man. He grasps Dean's hips and gazes bleary eyed up at the boy. "I want you to fuck my face."

"Holy shit. Are you serious?" Dean's lips are all pink and wide.

Sam nods and pulls him back into his mouth. Dean tenderly holds Sam's hair out of his face. Then, he closes his fists tight and tilts Sam's his face heavenward. God, Sam loves that. The way Dean just moves him where he wants. The kid gives a few careful, testing thrusts. Then, he lets loose. "Oh, fuck."

'Oh fuck.'

With one hand on the back of Sam's head and the other firmly holding his chin, Dean's hips grind wildly. Sam's eyes water, jaw aches. He has never had anything strike the back of his throat this way. He isn't prepared for the breathless sensation. Panicked, he grunts and pushes Dean back. The boy lets him go and stumbles backward. "I'm sorry."

Sam gags and coughs. He swipes the spit and tears from his face.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I…"

He raises his leaking eyes to Dean's and gasps, "More."

"Are you shitting me?"

Sam practically devours that beautiful, shimmering cock. Dean seizes a handful of Sam's hair and clenches his ass cheeks until he is buried to the hilt. "Oh my fucking god."

Course, sandy pubic hairs tickle Sam's nose. He suppresses a sneeze. He consciously loosens every muscle in his body to let Dean drag him forward. Dean slams viciously into Sam's face over and over again. Sam whimpers and whines and takes it. And God, he loves it. But it isn't long before he has to push away again. He feels like he's drowning and burning at the same time. His cock leaks like a faucet.

"Dude, do you want…"

Sam growls up at him. "Finish."

In one harsh motion, Dean jams so far into Sam's mouth that they both shout. Only Sam's voice is muted by cock. It's less than a minute more when Dean wheezes, "Sam, I'm gonna…"

He tries to pull back. Sam grips him tight with both hands, binding the boy in place, forcing him to come right where he is. Dean shudders against him. The briny taste and slick of him filling Sam's mouth, his release sliding hot down Sam's throat is the most vulnerable, intimate experience of Sam's life so far.

"Holy fuck." Dean pulls out, legs aquiver. He holds onto the counter with both hands as he catches his breath.

Sam crumbles forward with his forehead on the cold floor. He curls up, sobbing so loudly he kind of scares himself. He can't imagine what Dean must think - just can't stop.

"Dude. Sam." Dean's hand is tender on his back. "I'm sorry. I thought …"

Sam shakes his head and tries to speak. Tries to tell him it's okay. More than okay.  
Sam can't  
He just can't  
A series of faltering, unintelligible sounds chokes out of him. Dean lowers himself over his back, murmuring apologies, soothing his lovely hands through Sam's hair. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Sam, please."

Somehow, Sam manages to bring himself to an upright position. He hauls the boy forward and clutches his neck, still weeping like some kind of lunatic. Without planning to, he sprinkles soft, pious kisses over Dean's cheek, down his jaw, anywhere his worshipful lips can reach. It's the only way he can begin to express what he's feeling - all the unspeakable gratitude, the relief, the blessed openness.

Finally, the torrent of tears eases to a mist. Sam's chest still aches. His face and knees are in glorious pain from being on the floor so long. Sam's cock is still fully erect when he whispers. "Thank you."

"What, are you … You okay?" Dean leans back to get a better look at him.

Sam nods, before lowering his face and starting to weep again.

After another long while, they both sit with their backs to the kitchen cabinets. Dean drops his head onto Sam's shoulder. Then, he punches the man in the arm. "You scared the shit out of me."

Still sniffling, Sam laughs and wraps an arm around the kid to pull him close.

The afternoon passes quickly with both of them putzing around the apartment like it's the most natural thing in the world. They have lunch and eventually, dinner. Most of their talk is football. Not Sam's father and not the draft. Nothing concrete, just strategy.

Sam has a little work to get done, so he sits next to Dean on the sofa while the kid dozes off. Sam can't remember the last time he's felt so comfortable in his own home.

Although Dean snakes a hand under Sam's shirt and tries valiantly to start something up again, Sam decides he has freaked them both out enough for one day. Around 10:00, he begrudgingly pronounces it time to drive Dean home.

Sam ejects the CD and searches until he finds a station that plays brash, rhythmic music with spoken word over it. "This good?"

Dean nods.

You can't play football for 20 years without being exposed to rap music. It just never grew on Sam. He can, kind of, see the appeal, though.

He keeps stealing glances over at Dean. The kid doesn't seem to be enjoying the music. He just stares out of the window.

Finally, his face snaps around at Sam, "What? You kinky bastard."

Sam laughs, relieved by the jab. "Nothing."

"Nothing my ass. How long have you been fantasizing about that shit?"

Sam smiles. It's a good question. "A long time. Did you like it?"

"How could I not like you choking on my dick? Right up until you start fucking crying on the floor like I broke you or something."

Sam cracks up at that. This kid.

"Fuck, man. What is your girl going to say when she finds out you're a frigging cock slut?"

Sam glances at him a few times more. "Dean. You know I'm gay, right?"

Dean scoffs. "Don't worry, dude. Gagging on one dick does not make you gay."

"No, I'm…" 'How have I not been clear about this?' "Did you not know that?"

Dean gawks back at him. "You shitting me?"

Sam shakes his head and turns for a second to see the expression on Dean's face: doubt, maybe. "Why would I?"

"I don't know. 'Cause you're like that? You like to play games."

Sam blinks rapidly and nearly pulls the car over. "You think that about me?"

Dean laughs, bitterly. "I know that about you."

"You think I've been playing games with you?" Sam's face heats and tenses. That accusation is far more painful than it should be.

Dean goes back to staring out of his window for a while. Then, he looks back. "So, you're telling me that wasn't your first time?"

"Oh, no. It was. It was… " More of his life Sam doesn't want to try to explain.

"So, what kind of fag are you? You been in the priesthood all this time?"

Sam turns the music down. "Um. No. I've been with someone who … doesn't enjoy that."

"A guy?"

"Yeah." Sam draws his lower lip into his mouth.

"Who doesn't like head?" Dean eyes widen, clearly, understandably incredulous.

"Happy to give, not to receive." Sam would rather not be talking about Castiel.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and continues his study of the darkness outside. "Bullshit."

"Everybody's different, Dean."

"See? You're fucking with me again." He turns the music back up.

Sam gently touches the button and turns it off. "I swear, I'm not. His name is Castiel and he is not like anyone else on earth. I guarantee you that."

"You know what? Forget it. I don't care. It was hot. You're hot. I don't give a shit. Let's talk about something else."

"Okay." Sam glances and waits to see where Dean will steer the conversation. When it becomes evident that no new topic is forthcoming, Sam volunteers, "How's your season going?"

"All right." Dean grunts. "Your dad says he called some kind of scouts or something."

"Seriously?" Sam can hardly believe that. His dad does not stick his neck out lightly.

Dean shrugs. "That's what he said."

"I really have to see you play, don't I?"

"You do whatever you want." Dean leans back and closes his eyes.

His hand is already on the door handle when Sam pulls up outside of his building.

Sam catches Dean's arm before he can jump out. "Hey. Are you mad at me?"

"Naw, man." The kid jerks his arm away.

The thought that Sam will never see Dean again results in a moment of minor hysteria. "Dean, what did I do?"

"Nothing. I don't know."

"Did you want to have turned me gay? You wanted me to be straight? Was that part of the fun for you?" He's grasping at straws.

Dean's face is solemn. "It's not like that."

"So…" Sam leans to the side to try to get Dean to look at him.

"I don't know. I don't fucking know, all right. I'm just tired or something."

"Would you please tell me what the problem is, Dean? I don't think I can leave here if you don't talk to me." Sam can imagine himself sitting outside of this apartment building all night, wracking his brain to figure out what went wrong.

"Your fucking boyfriend, man." Dean barks. "I never fucked around with a guy who had a boyfriend before."

"But you have messed around with guys before?" Sam chooses each word carefully.

Dean's voice is suddenly so cold and vicious. "Do I seem like a virgin to you?"

Instinctively, Sam backs up to give him room. "But you're usually the one on your knees, right?"

"Fuck you." Dean starts to climb from the car again.

Sam opens his hands in a gesture of harmlessness and goodwill. "Please. Look. I'm not judging, okay? I'm getting to know you."

"If you're asking if I've ever been fucked. Yeah. Plenty."

Sam nods as casually as he can. It doesn't surprise him. Dean is so pretty. His body is tight and slender. Even when he finishes growing, with his delicate, sulky features, he'll probably still look like 'the type.' "Do you not like it?"

Dean shrugs and mutters. "It's okay. If the guy's okay."

"Have you been with guys who aren't okay?" Again, carefully worded.

He snaps anyway. "Haven't you?"

Sam isn't getting anything right. The whole thing is unraveling. This kid is going to be done with him, and Sam is going to lose his mind. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "I've been with one guy for the last six years and he's the only guy I've ever been with."

Dean studies him for a long moment, "What, are you married to him?"

Sam has to laugh at that, albeit bitterly. "You know, it's funny. When I was a kid, that was never a thought that would enter your mind - that two guys could be married. And now, it's just … crazy how completely things can change."

Dean shrugs and opens the car door.

"Dean."

"What?" He shouts back. He doesn't even turn around to face Sam.

"I'm not with him anymore. And I was never playing games with you. I was … Like I said, it was complicated. Now, it's not. Okay?"

"Whatever." Dean practically dives out of the car and slams the door behind him.


	14. Chapter 14

"Good morning." Sam attempts a smile at his cubicle neighbor, Mrs. Mosely.

Judging by the awe on her face, he must have spoken in Sanskrit.

"Well, good morning, Sam. How are you today?" He's heard her talk before, but never to him.

Her voice has this sing-songy quality that reminds him of a kindergarten teacher.

"I'm okay," he answers shakily, aware of the stares shooting at him from across the room.

Mrs. Mosely tries to be inconspicuous as she connects with some of the curious gazes of his co-workers.

Sam soldiers on. "And how are you?"

"I'm fantastic, Sam. Thank you for asking," she speaks slowly, deliberately, as if addressing a child.

"Of course." Sam nods and allows himself a deep breath, feeling as if he has accomplished his full workload for the day.

He gives her another tight smile, before sticking in his earbuds and retreating behind his mug of tea.

Sam lasts until around 10:00 AM. Not that he actually gets any work done, but he manages to stay in his seat, staring at the screen, idly tapping on his desk until shortly after 10. When he can't stand it anymore, he holds a file over his lap and stands - as discreetly as a man of his size can do - which means everyone in the office at least glances up at him.

Sam's cheeks burn so he can assume how flushed he is. Shielding himself with the folder, he slips down the hall and into the bathroom. He drops the manila folder on the sink and leans his back against the stall door once it is closed behind him.

His belt and fly are short work. He lets out a long sigh the moment he touches himself. Eyes closed, he lets his head hang back as he jerks himself much more rapidly than he usually would. But this is neither the time nor location for a long drawn out session.

Wide mouthed, he pants, shudders slightly and turns around to press his cheek against the cool wall.

It's pitiful. He has never done anything remotely like this before. Not in public. He simply could not get the thought of Dean out of his mind. Sam hasn't been completely flaccid since he dropped the kid off last night. He has beat off more in the past 12 hours than he has since high school: in bed before he fell asleep, woke up hard - took care of that in the shower, again after breakfast.

Now, he's oversensitive and slightly chafed, but it doesn't matter. He uses precome to make the glide easier, loosens his grip and yanks himself with all the finesse of a teenager.

The sound of skin on skin and, God, the thought of Dean. Every time Sam remembers the way he smelled, the taste of him, that weight on his tongue, warm flesh filling his mouth, fingers tight in his hair, Sam finds himself in this predicament. "Fuck, Dean."

Sam presses his lips together, nostrils flaring, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to control his breathing. He's never been particularly quiet, and a whimper escapes anyway. He comes with a groan, barely stifled behind clenched teeth.

He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his jacket, slowly regaining enough composure to go out among people. "Jesus."

Before he leaves the stall, he cleans up the mess with a wad of toilet paper - really should have prepared better than this. Dean Smith has turned Sam's brain into a sex-crazed mush.

Dean Smith grins. He's slick as oil. While the teacher's back is turned, he slouches down, holds his phone between his stomach and the desk to check out what Sam sent.

SW: Learning anything?  
DS: How to sleep with my eyes open. Fucking Voltaire  
SW: Interesting guy  
DS: Not  
SW: Need a break?  
DS: Always  
SW: Can I take you to lunch? You guys can still leave campus, right?  
DS: I wish

There's no new message for a few minutes.

DS: Why?  
SW: Just wanted to see you

Dean smiles.

DS: You saw me yesterday  
SW: I want to see you now  
DS: Aren't you working?  
SW: Took half the day off. Couldn't concentrate  
DS: Where you at?

It takes a second for Sam to send a picture of the front of Dean's school.

DS: WTF?  
SW: See if you can find me

The corner of Sam's lip curls up the moment he sees the kid. He licks his lips and looks Dean over from head to toe. Jeans, Stones T-shirt, some kind of goop makes his hair stick up today. Looks good.

Dean smiles, too. He stops at the edge of the grove of trees and casts a glance back over his shoulder. From this vantage, they can occasionally see the runners in PE rounding the track, but there's still enough, golden, orange and red foliage to keep Sam and Dean hidden.

Dean stuffs his hands in his back pocket and stares a hole into the crotch of Sam's pants. He gets a show for his trouble. Sam was already hard when he arrived. At the sight of Dean, his cock dances.

"Come here." Sam holds out his arm.

Dean takes a step. Then he stops. He hangs one arm from an overhead branch and says, "You come here."

Sam licks his lips again. It's never intentional, just happens. He kicks off from the tree where he was leaning. His shoes crunch over those of the leaves that have already fallen. When he's toe to toe with Dean, his tongue peeks out again. Dean reaches up to chase it with his thumb.

Sam's cock strains at his zipper. He's suddenly, subtly aware of how loudly he is breathing, how quickly his heart is beating. The hot ache in his chest isn't relieved when he wraps a hand around Dean's neck. If anything, it gets worse. "I, uh…"

Dean palms Sam's crotch, smirking like it's his property. "You wanted to give me lunch?"

"I wanted to… take you..." Sam stammers, imminently less brave with Dean right in front of him.

Somehow, before he drove out here, and while they were texting, this had seemed like such a hot idea. Sam runs his knuckles over the bruise on Dean's face. "Is this…"

"Your ace driving, man. You really ought to make it up to me."

Sam looks over Dean's shoulder. "They'll be able to see us."

"You think so?" Dean grins.

Sam swallows. "Maybe."

"Then, you better be quick." The kid opens his own pants and smiles as Sam goes to his knees.

Sam's eyes reflect the sunlight. There's every single color of the leaves in them. Dean's a little breathless and already addicted to his cologne. With any luck, if he presses up against him, he'll get some of it on his clothes. Dean cringes at the girlishness of that thought but is quickly distracted from his self-disgust by the warm heat engulfing his dick.

"Shit." Holding onto that branch, he leans slightly forward, already short of breath.

Sam has lowered his jeans just enough to free him. From the back, if anyone can see Dean in the woods, it'll just look like he's standing there. But that little bit of fabric in the way does not stop Sam from taking Dean all the way down his throat.

"God damn, Sam."

Sam grins up at him. "Good?"

Dean swipes a hand over Sam's girl-soft hair, leans down and kisses him. "It's fucking amazing."

He dives down again, all the way until his lips are in Dean's pubes. Sam responds to praise. Good to know. He gags like a pro and stays there like that. Dean's knees tremble, balls clench. He nearly stumbles forward. "Fucking Christ."

Sam slides back until his lips are just wrapped around the head. He does this thing with his tongue where he swirls it around and then dips it into the slit. Dean makes a sound he's never heard out of his own mouth - or anyone else's, for that matter. He's reduced to a mix of trembling awe and helplessness.

His guts are all hot and tied up, and Sam is so perfect and greedy for him. He fucking left work early to come see him. Dean caresses his hair. It's just so fucking nice. Everything about him is. Dean feels this soft, fuzzy emotion, kind of like what you get when you look at puppies too long. It's not a feeling he's had before or one he wants.

He brings his other hand to Sam's shoulder and drives his hips, hard, into the guy's face - without any warning or anything. It's an asshole thing to do. These days, Dean would deck a guy if one ever tried to pull that kind of shit on him. Sam just moans.

Without pulling off, he nudges into the hand on his head. Dean assumes that means Sam doesn't want to be touched and drops it away. That's fine. He hates when guys do that to him.  
Prefers to set his own fucking pace.

Sam looks up at him, eyes glassy and perfect. He moans in what sounds like disappointment. With one hand he puts Dean's hand back on his head. He holds Dean's dick in the other and comes off just long enough to whisper, "Pull it."

Sam's voice is so quiet, it takes a moment for Dean to realize what he said. Then his fingers curl in that silky shit, and he yanks so hard, he knows Sam is going to beat his ass for it.

Sam pulls off, but it's only to gasp, "Oh God. I fucking love that."

He really goes to town now, cheeks hollowing out with every slide nearly all the way off. One hand is working Dean's shaft, the other one is rolling his balls like he's got stress to work out.

"I'm…" Dean grips Sam's hair, body buzzing, white hot.

That moment of tightness is almost unbearable before the planet shifts. Dean shoots, shivering and half insane with how good it is. Sam swallows every fucking drop, moaning like it's the best damn meal he's ever had.

The way Sam gazes up at him makes Dean feel like the Pope or somebody's dad or something. There's all this adoration and tenderness in it. Dean clears his throat, takes a step back and puts his junk away. "You're next."

Sam hadn't let Dean bring him off yesterday. Dean might be a jerk sometimes, but he would never leave a guy hanging like that.

"Okay." Sam climbs to his feet. "But not here."

They'd had to drive half an hour to get here. It's more than worth it to Sam. The thicker the woods grow around them, the more the tension rolls off his body.

"You're not gonna chop me up or something?" Dean peers around himself and looks like he's only half joking.

Sam smiles and reaches for his hand. Dean looks down at the offer but keeps himself just out of reach. It can't be that he's worried about spectators. There's not a soul for miles. Only whippoorwills' songs and squirrels rustling the leaves. They might see a raccoon or a fox if they're lucky. All the frogs are gone this late in the year. Sam huffs to himself and makes a mental note - the kid likes his space, sometimes.

When Sam was Dean's age, he had always imagined what it would be like to bring someone out to these woods. Someone he wanted to be here with. Someone he'd want to kiss and touch and just be alone with.

There hadn't been anybody like that for him in high school. Yeah, sure. He had Jessica, but the whole point of being with her was for everyone to see it. No point coming out here. If he'd ever showed her this place, she would have expected Sam to go for second base. He didn't want that any more than she did. She was a church girl and what they had was perfect for back then. Just like what he has with Dean is perfect now.

Almost perfect.

Dean is perfect. And Sam's, sort of.

At the sight of the creek, Dean jogs ahead. By the time Sam reaches him, he's out of his shoes and socks off and has rolled up his pants like Huckleberry Finn. His arms flap a little bit as he tiptoes gingerly over the pebbles. The moment his toes touch the water, he hisses and looks back at Sam, mouth forming an O. "Cold as fuck."

Sam laughs and leans back on his elbows, still propped up so he can watch.

Cold as fuck, but Dean goes in anyway. Slowly. An inch at a time, but intrepid. Maybe it's a matter of honor to him. Maybe he's that type - who does things for honor or pride.

Sam wonders what else motivates this boy. Not for the first time, he wonders what Dean saw, why he wanted Sam, what this thing, this fling, means to him. Sam sits up, crosses his legs and rests his chin on a fist.

"You should come get in here." Dean gestures. "It'll shrivel your balls right up."

Sam shakes his head and laughs despite the fact that it's complete nonsense. "Why would I do that?"

Dean shrugs. "Just to do it."

Sam's chest is already warm again. His arm is draped over Dean's shoulder, fingers splayed between his ribs. His heart beats slow and steady under Dean's cheek.

Dean's hand runs up and down Sam's side, as far up into his pit and down his thigh as it'll go in this position. This guy's body is insane. Dean has been with big guys before, built guys. He actually seems to be a magnet for them.

But Sam is like a Greek god or something. Dean sticks out his tongue to see if he can reach Sam's nip without moving his head. Not quite. But Sam's massive fucking dick twitches against his thigh. Dean had managed about half of it before he gave up and let his hand do the other half of the work.

As much as Sam likes to choke, Dean had been expecting to get pushed around and what not. He would have put up with a little bit of that for Sam's sake, but he really hates that shit.

It turned out, Sam had laid perfectly still. His hand had brushed the back of Dean's neck once. Then he had dropped it onto the ground at his side and just let Dean does his thing.

Dean has been told, repeatedly, that he's a gifted cocksucker. He tends to think it has more to do with guys' obsession with his mouth in the first place. But Sam didn't say anything. Once Dean had spat that slimy shit out, he had laid there and waited for Dean to crawl back up his body and search his face.

Sam's eyes fluttered open. He blinked a few times. His pretty pink mouth parted, but he still didn't say anything.

"Was that okay?" It wasn't something Dean had ever been insecure about before.

It's head. It's like pizza. You can't really fuck it up unless you try. There had been a handful of times in Dean's life when he had gotten toothy on purpose or sloppy and lackluster. Generally, he gave about as good as he got.

Dean had never wanted to please a guy - or anybody - this much. So when Sam bit his lip and shook his head slightly, Dean's heart sank. He sat up on his knees, ran his hands down his thighs. He fixed his eyes on a nearby tree and muttered, "Sorry."

What felt like a javelin went through the center of his chest, and he stood up. Sam caught his ankle as he started to walk away.

"It was…" Sam started to speak. Then, he just raised his hand.

Dean looked down at him: the way his hair spread out in the grass, the peaceful look on his face. His pants were still open - mouth, too. "You liked it?"

Sam snickered, just a little. He seemed tired. "Yeah. Now, would you please, kiss me?"

It occurred to Dean that they hadn't. Both of their lips had been otherwise occupied since they met. Was that really just yesterday? He smiled and straddled Sam's chest. Looking down at the guy's mouth, Dean figured he might start to develop an obsession of his own.

Like most white people, other than Angelina Jolie, Sam's lips are thinner than Dean's. But they have this sensuous curve to them, especially when he smiles. And he has this maddening habit of wetting them every couple of minutes.

Sam brought a hand to Dean's face, the other to the small of his back. He licked his lips before they parted again, in anticipation.

Suddenly, Dean had the disorienting insight that he was going to remember this fucking kiss for the rest of his life. His heart did that thing again - that clenching, sinking, aching thing it had started doing the moment he saw Sam at the track yesterday. Maybe there had even been a foreshadow of it the first time Dean saw him. Dean thought of all that shit, and he couldn't move.

"You don't have to." Sam kind of smiled and swallowed. His hands retreated.

"I don't think I want to, man. Sorry." Dean's heart ached, but he could deal with private pain.

It looked like Sam was trying to smile, but doing a miserable job of it. His lips twitched and curled like he wanted to tell Dean it was okay, but he couldn't quite bring himself to say the words.

Dean didn't give a fuck whether it was okay with Sam or not. He wasn't going to kiss this dude. At least not until he got this emotion shit under control. He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth and slapped Sam's flank twice. "Come get in the water."

At first, he didn't think Sam was going to do it. He hemmed and hawed and watched Dean shuck his clothes like a bad habit. The whole time, Sam shook his head like a little bitch.

Then, once Dean was up to his thighs and shivering, he looked back over his shoulder to see Sam folding his pants. ' _What a fucking nerd.'_

He smiled and waited until Sam was naked. That turned out to be a mistake. The moment Sam had rolled his socks together, he charged like a bull. Dean had tried to dodge him, but he was every bit as fast and powerful as he looked. He hurled his body forward, dragging them both under the icy surface.

Now, they're laying on the shore, like a couple of lizards. The sun is still shining, but it ain't exactly tropical. Dean's got goosebumps everywhere. Sam had warmed up again pretty much the moment they crawled out of the water. So, Dean had curled himself against his skin and soaked up that heat.

He lays there, listening to Sam's heart beat: steady as a clock.

"SHIT!"

Sam jumps. He hadn't expected the shout.

It's been a long time since he's had anything like that fun in the water. It felt so good to lay with Dean afterward that he must have fallen asleep. If that's all the kid wants - fun that feels good - Sam can do that. He's never had anything like that before, except in the early days with Cas. But still

Dean checks Sam's watch and swears again. He immediately hops to his feet and into his jeans, skipping the boxers. Sam folds his hands behind his head. Watching this kid do anything - there ought to be a fee.

"Practice?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

He scratches his belly.

Dean tucks his socks into his pockets. "Your dad's going to kill me. I'm already 15 minutes late."

As Dean pulls on his shirt, Sam wraps a hand around his shin. "Then skip it."

"I can't." He shakes his foot, lightly, but firmly kicking Sam's hand away.

"You know, in two years, I never blew off work before today."

"Well, good for you. I can't ditch practice. Are you going to drive me or do I have to run?" Dean pulls on his plaid flannel.

Sam sits up with a groan, just to express how much he regrets the moment being over. Sighing, he uses his socks to knock sand from his feet.

Dean kicks Sam's shoe toward him. "Can you fucking hurry up?"

It knocks against his knee. It doesn't hurt at all, but Sam blinks up and presses his lips together. It's just a little too familiar.

Dean says a tight, "Please," and doesn't speak again, even once they're in the car.

His fingers drum on his thighs; his toes taps. He groans when Sam slows for a yellow light.

Sam rolls his eyes. "You want me to disobey the traffic signs?"

"I want you to stop being a bitch and get me to school."

Sam draws his lips into his mouth and takes a deep breath. A cold sensation washes over his skin. When they pull up in front of the building, Sam looks out of his window.

Dean doesn't hop right out. "Look…" He pauses like he's trying to remember how to apologize. "You ought to come say hi to your dad."

Sam scoffs and looks over to see whether it's some kind of joke. "Yeah. Not a good idea."

"So, you're just going to leave?" Dean doesn't turn toward him, but Sam is sure this is as close to contrition as he's going to get right now.

So, he meets him halfway with, "You want me to stay?"

"I'm not going to fucking beg you." He already sounds belligerent again.

"Why not?" Sam smiles, really wanting the argument to be over.

"Fuck you." Dean chuckles, a little. "Come watch me throw."

Sam shakes his head. It's not that he doesn't want to see Dean play. He has not forgotten the cold shoulder the last time he saw his father and doesn't really a fresh dose of humiliation. Especially not in front of Dean. He'd seen it before, but Sam hadn't known him then. If his dad just ignores him with Dean standing right there… he just doesn't want to deal with it, today or probably ever.

Dean gets out. He takes a couple of steps. Then he turns around and spreads his arms. "Or go home. Whatever. I'll see you when I see you."

Even when Ash runs backwards, he's still dusting everyone. Dean is close, but this fucker is just plain fast. Dean runs and hisses at something sharp kicking at him from the inside. Might be Envy. Could be Hate.

A repulsive grin cracks Ash's stupid face. "Come on, slowpokes. Last one of you in has to suck Smith's dick."

Dean usually comes in right behind him, which is, perhaps, why he has the honor of being the suck-ee. Anyway, nobody finds it funny except for Ash. He spins back around and takes off like he's got turbo boosters sticking out of his ass.

Dean knuckles down a little bit, but there are still six laps to go, and he's not trying to kill himself before practice even starts. Today, he comes in third after this lanky senior, Todd Something. Once practically everyone is on the sideline, panting, with their hands on their knees, trying to pull themselves together, Ash crows, "Come on, Glenn. You lard ass. Move it."

Glenn always is the last one done his laps. He's tubby as hell and useful when it comes time for blocking. Speed is never going to be his strong suit.

Ash must have had his Wheaties this morning because he is not letting up. He cups his hands around his cake hole and shouts, " You really want Dean's meat, don't you? You fucking slow ass faggot. Pick up those fat feet, God damn it."

That sharp thing when Dean looks at Ash? It's Hate. Definitely Hate. Dean can't help wondering if - after spending the day with Sam - he's giving off some kind of gay-diation. Guys like Ash always have a sixth sense for weakness.

He thinks about saying something - telling Ash to lay off - but who wants that kind of attention? Coach Winchester watches Glenn with this stern, unreadable look on his face. Dean can't help wondering what the old man would say if he knew his own son was gay.

What would John Winchester do if he knew that Dean had fucked his son's face?

It isn't until they get out on the green and Dean starts tossing that he notices Sam. The sun is behind where he's sitting, way the hell up in the bleachers. Dean has to squint, but he recognizes that light blue blazer and the tan pants. The smile happens before he can stop himself. He hurls the next dead center into Donovan's chest. The receiver stumbles back a few steps.

Dean smirks up at the bleacher. Sam had to have seen that one. Dean is just about to send another one sailing when he notices the coach, using his clipboard to shield his eyes. He hands it over to assistant coach Ottinger and starts marching up toward Sam.

Sam's heart stops in his chest. His blood burns like acid. He searches right and left for the best escape route. In the end, he sits perfectly still, like a possum trying to trick a predator by pretending to be dead. As loud as his heart is pounding, there's no way he's fooling anyone.

It doesn't matter than Sam has a good six inches on his old man now and his own barrel chest. Some roles are indelible. Perception is reality. Sam could even spout all the psycho babble that explains why he shrinks back and lets his shoulders droop - why his chin and eyes drop as his father approaches.

The old man's footsteps rattle the bleachers until he is standing one level below Sam. His nostrils flare, perhaps from the exertion of the climb. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hi, Dad." Sam's voice is thin and small, like a little kid, even to his own ears.

His chest is a solid knot of tension. John Winchester sounds exactly the same as he always has: strong and in command. "You need to go."

"I'm just sitting here." Sam's eyes flick down to the field.

Dean is watching. Everyone is watching. His father turns and no doubt sees the same thing.  
"You're distracting my players."

"They look good." Sam closes his eyes for a second to reboot. "I mean, they're playing well."

"Go home, Sam."

Sam takes a breath, stands and opens his mouth to argue, defend himself, say anything.

"Get the fuck off my bleachers, boy!" His father's lip curls, with a ferocity in his dark eyes that cut as razor-sharp as his words.

Sam blinks, chokes on the air in his lungs. Holds his breath to stop the sting. Somehow he strangles out, "Yes, sir."

Sam does not look for Dean on his way off the field. He doesn't want to see what kind of expression is on his face. He doesn't run, but he walks briskly - shoes clipping over the pavement.

Maybe tears would put out the fire behind his face, but they don't come. Other than the agony of Dean having witnessed that, he doesn't feel anything at all. Just the same void that accompanies any thoughts of his father.

"Sam Winchester?"

He turns to find the warmly smiling face of Mrs. Aldridge, the librarian - or at least she was in his day.

"Oh, honey. I always wondered when you'd breeze back through these hallways. Haven't seen you in... how on earth have you been?"

Sam's brain scrambles for an answer, but it turns out not to be necessary.

Mrs. Aldridge continues, " I've asked your father over and again how you are. You know we were all rooting for you so hard and then ... Everyone around here always said when you got through with ball you'd go on and do something even greater. I had my money on space science. I think half of the faculty said law. At one point your mother said you had studied medicine. I said, hands probably too big for brain surgery," she guffaws, "but I know he'll save a lot of lives. Is that what you're doing?"

"Um. Accounting, actually." He clears the catch in his throat.

Her eyes grow wide for a moment. "Hm... well, that's an honest living, isn't it?... You know where to find your dad?"

"Yes. Yes, ma'am."

Sam sits in his car, staring through the windshield. He doesn't want to drive, not feeling stable, not sure he won't have a breakdown - which is as bad as driving impaired. He reads the same passage of Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom over and over again.

"I was wrong. I admit it. I believed that there were things which still mattered just because they had mattered once. But I was wrong. Nothing matters but breath, breathing, to know and to be alive."

A couple minutes - or hours - later, Dean gets in and shuts the door. "Well, that was brutal. What the fuck did you do?"

"Can we not?" Sam's voice is shot.

It sounds like he's been crying, but he hasn't. Did enough of that back then to last a lifetime.

Dean shrugs and turns on the radio. His rock music is on from when they'd left the school. It blares out of the speakers. Dean quickly taps the button again. The stereo switches to playing to Sam's CD and the car fills with Dvorak's Stabat Mater.

And now, Sam cries. Not out loud, thank God. But a silent river runs hot down his face. He shakes his head, disgusted with himself and incredulous. This is the second time in two days that Dean has seen him lose it.

' _Am I going to cry every time I see this kid?'_

Dean quickly shuts off the painfully gorgeous cantata, apparently assuming it's the problem. They're both quiet for a moment. Then Dean begins to sing softly and horribly out of tune,  
"Don't cry, don't raise your eye.  
It's only teenage wasteland."

Sam blinks at him.

Dean shrugs. "It's what I got."

Sam sob-laugh-snorts, sniffs in a mess of snot. He hides his face in the crook of his arm until he has gotten himself together. He huffs, meets Dean's optimistic eyes and reaches for his hand. Just as quickly, Dean slips it away from his grasp. That stings, more than a little, but Sam nods and starts the car.

Dean's hand shifts and comes to rest on Sam's tender, overused, and self-sabotagingily captivated cock.

"You know this isn't a date, right?" Dean says, because he's an asshole and that's the kind of thing assholes say.

He says it more to himself than Sam. He just happened to have said it out loud, and Sam happens to be sitting here, so, he probably overheard. And that would explain the sour look on his face.

It doesn't explain why Sam smiles and nods. "That's fine. You sure you didn't want anything else?"

Dean pats his stomach. "I'm stuffed, man. Thanks."

"Of course." Sam gives that tight little smile that says he hasn't forgotten what went down with his dad - and who can blame him?

And he's probably still pissed at Dean for being a douche by the creek.

"Sometimes life hands you a bag of dicks."

"What?" Sam's bitch face starts to crack into a small, if confused smile.

The waitress swipes the little folder with Sam's credit card from where he'd laid it on the table. Dean leans back in his seat to watch her go. She's got one hell of a cute ass.

Sam clears his throat. "You were saying."

Dean looks back at him and blinks.

"Bag of dicks?"

Dean has to smile at that one. "You'd love that, wouldn't ya?"

Sam would die of asphyxiation if he had a bag of dicks.

"ASS-fixation." Dean chuckles to himself.

Sam shakes his head. He definitely acts like an adult too much of the time. Not his fault, though. Nobody's perfect. Sam's fucking close, but there had to be something wrong with him - other than that nasty ass rabbit food he had for dinner. Dean laughs again.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

The waitress with the cute ass returns with Sam's credit card. She leans forward and whispers, " I'm sorry, sir. It was declined. "

Sam looks up at her like she's speaking a different language. "That's not possible."

"I tried it three times, Sir. Do you have another one you can use?"

Sam gawks down at his card, shakes his head and pulls out his wallet. While he's rifling through his plastic, Dean says, " Hey. I got a little cash."

He leans up on his side to pull a wad of bills from his pocket.

"No. That's not..." Sam protests, but Dean has already given the girl a twenty.

She blushes slightly and refers to her receipt. "It's ... um .. $42.74."

"For a couple burritos and a salad? Sheesh. Glad I didn't get that second slice of pie." Dean lays all of his crumpled dollars on the table.

Sam gently takes the twenty from her and replaces it with a different card. "Try this one, please."

"Dude. I got it."

Sam offers him back the money. "Please, put it away."

"Is this some kind of thing with you?" Dean's voice is tense and starting to raise, although even he is not sure why.

Sam takes a breath and coos, "I want to do this for you. When you have a job, you can take me to dinner, okay?"

"I have a job."

Sam purses his lips and looks up as the waitress approaches and shakes her head. His mouth falls open.

Dean smiles and says, "Can you give us a second, please, Mandy?"

She mirrors his ease, nods and walks away.

Sam shakes his head, staring at his card. "That can't be."

"So, listen. You got any change in between your seats?"

Sam's head goes on shaking, like he's trapped in a loop of disbelief.

"Yeah. I didn't think so. Well, I got thirty-three bucks. So, we're either going to have bolt, wash dishes or get creative."

Sam makes a call to his bank. After about half an hour of tedium, frustration and redirected calls, the representative confirms what Mandy said: all of Sam's accounts are blocked. Not empty, thank God, but blocked. They can only rectify it when he comes in person, during business hours - tomorrow.

"All right. I got this." Dean turns in his seat. When he turns back again, his face is stone-cold in concentration. Then he nods, like a man about to go off a diving board. "Just sit tight. You get up, Mandy's manager's going to call the cops."

"What are you…"

Dean winks at him and slides out of the booth. On his way across the room, his hand brushes over the arm of a middle-aged man in a sport coat who is eating alone. Dean turns around and makes an elaborate show of apologizing. He puts his hand over the man's, looks in his eye with a smile Sam has never seen. It's all syrup and grade school. He tilts his head, just so and repeats the apology.

Sam's no flirt, but he fucking well knows what it looks like.

Dean has been gone a little under a minute before the man looks over his shoulder at Sam and leaves his seat. Heat flashes in Sam's chest, and he rises out of his seat. A few people look at him and he, slowly, eases back down. His hands curl into fists on the table, toes tapping beneath it.

Dean wouldn't … This is when it occurs to Sam that he doesn't know Dean. He has no idea what Dean would do.

The man is gone for under two minutes. He gives Sam an inscrutable look as he returns to his seat. Sam is not a violent person, but he sincerely considers going over and bashing this stranger's skull in. As he's going over the pros and cons, his phone goes off.

DS: Handled. Meet me at the car.

Sam sits there. Can't move. Breathes loudly through his nose.

"Sorry for the confusion," Mandy says as she starts to clear the dishes from in front of him.

Finally, Sam manages to stand and walk towards the door. His body feels heavy and strange, as if he's moving through water. He stops just behind the guy who had followed Dean. He's never hit anyone before.

The guy turns and starts at Sam standing there, probably at the size of him. He shrinks back. Sam glares down at him, trying to figure out what he's supposed to do.

"Sam."

Sam's face snaps up at the sound of Dean's voice.

"What the hell are you doing? Come on."

Sam shakes off the daze and follows. Dean is leaning on the car with his arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles.

Sam doesn't want to ask. Doesn't even want to know, just doesn't think he'll be able to function normally if he doesn't. "What did you do?"

"Didn't do shit." The kid has gum.

Sam scratches the back of his neck and huffs. "He just gave you twenty bucks?"

"Only had a fifty." Dean shrugs. "Rich people."

"Dean, what did you…"

"I gave him a bullshit story and a fake number. So, maybe we should get the hell out of here." He stalks around to the passenger door.

Sam drives in silence for a while before asking, "How did you… know?"

"He was watching me like a hawk when we came in the place. Didn't really stop. I guess you didn't notice that." Dean bites his lower lip and nods his head in sharp, jerky movements to the rock song he's turned on.

"Shit." Sam winces. He just sat there the whole time while some creep was leering at Dean. He should have given that guy the beat down after all. "Why didn't you say something?"

"What? I'm supposed to cry 'cause some guy is looking at me? People are allowed to look. Ended well. Not a big deal." The song ends; Dean starts flipping through the stations.

There are other questions, now, that Sam wants to ask. Questions with answers that would make him crazy. Sam bites down on them, winds down the window to let the crisp air cool him off.

Dean steals a glance from time to time. He knows Sam is freaked out and itching to give him the third degree. But he doesn't say anything else, and Dean doesn't volunteer any more information. This is one of those classic 'you can't handle the truth' moments.

Dean pops in one of Sam's classical CDs.

The guy just mutters, "I have to go to the bank crazy early in the morning. I'm sorry. I'm just gonna just take you home."

"That's fine." It's not fine and Dean's biting a hole in his cheek.

They should have just bolted. What the hell was he thinking, doing something like that in front of Sam? The guy is… he's never going to want to talk to him again. "You think I'm…"

"I don't know what to think," Sam answers as if he's been waiting for the question.

"I didn't do anything with him." Dean refuses to apologize because he's telling the truth.

"I believe you," Sam replies stiffly, eyes never leaving the road.

"I mean, what kind of guy goes on a date and does something like that?" Dean is aware that he's called it a date. He hopes that will kind of smooth things over somewhat.

"The whole thing is my fault, and I'm sorry."

Well, that doesn't make any damn sense. "What do you mean?"

"If my… " Sam lets out a long breath. "Someone is messing with my accounts."

"Like identity fraud?" He and Jody had stolen more than a few credit cards in their madcap adventures. He wondered, for the first time, if they had left anybody in this kind of lurch.

"Something like that."

"That's fucked up," Dean mutters.

"Yes, it is."

Once the car pulls up in front of his building, Dean doesn't move until something occurs to him. He grabs for Sam's hand so fast he busts his own on the gear shift. He curses, shakes out the pain and spits out, "Come up? For just a second."

"I don't know if it's -"

"I just want to make you come one more time tonight. You don't have to stay long or anything." Dean palms Sam's crotch. He's already getting hard. "I guess, we could do it here."

"Dean." Sam stops his hand.

So, this is how he blows it. There's not really anything else Dean can do, but take his shit and get out of Sam's fucking car. "Fine."

Sam runs a hand down his face and sighs. Dean is halfway up the walkway when he leans out of the driver's door and shouts. "Hey. I need some uh… water."

Dean smirks. "Right this way, sir."

Sam follows him quietly up ten flights of stairs. There's an interesting odor on every story: urine, vomit, disinfectant and other chemical smells Sam can't place.

"Humble abode. Sam." Dean says, by way of introduction.

Sam casts a cursory glance around the kitchen. The furnishings consist of a square poker table and two steel folding chairs. Cockroaches scuttle over a pile of take-out containers in the sink. 'Humble' is an understatement.

He has never been in a place like this. He was not aware that there were Americans who live in this kind of squalor. It's an indignity he can hardly stand for Dean to endure. But it is way too soon for what Sam has (embarrassingly, even in the privacy of his thought) already been thinking.

' _Too soon, Sam. Way too soon.'_

That's a discussion for after a couple of years, not a couple of days. They aren't lesbians, after all. Sam can't think of anything nice to say, so he says, "It's nice."

"It's not." Dean tosses his key on the table.

"Sure, it is," Sam argues for no reason.

"Dude. I've seen where you grew up. I've seen where you live now. So, you don't have to blow smoke up my ass. This place is better than sleeping outside, but just barely." He hands Sam a beer from the fridge and takes one for himself.

The kid leads Sam to the living room in which there is a tattered, gray sofa that reminds Sam of a hoary, worn out elephant. There's a 13" television on another steel chair. Besides that, the room is bare.

"Can I see your room?" Sam asks, hoping it will be a little better.

"You're standing in it."

"Where do you sleep?"

Dean spreads his arms to present the sofa. He turns on the TV and drops himself onto the couch. "No DVD player. No cable. We do, however, have 13 channels of shit to choose from."

Sam settles next to him with a small grin. There is no way he's going to waste his time watching TV with this beautiful creature next to him.

"Would you quit looking at me?" Dean knocks his knee into Sam's.

Sam shakes his head. "I don't think so. Probably not ever."

Dean chuckles, puts down his beer and crawls into Sam's lap. He licks his lips, slowly, maintaining predatory eye contact. As desperately as Sam wants that mouth on his, he can't exactly complain when it's clamped onto his neck. Waves of heat rush through him and he holds Dean in place with a hand on his neck and one around his waist.

Sam does not protest when the kid slips to the floor between his knees. His head falls back against the sofa. He spreads his arms out wide, giving Dean his way, because that how he likes it. His eyes close, mouth parts, letting out a small breath. His cock is raw as ground meat, but he can't find it in himself to decline this.

He hisses as Dean pulls him out.

"Okay?"

"Yeah." He lies. "Little sensitive. Just take it easy down there."

Dean responds to that with a soft kiss to the tip and a tongue in the slit. Sam grips the fabric on the sofa and lets out a groan that is as much about pleasure as pain. This kid is so fucking talented.

Sam doesn't say that because he doesn't like to swear and he has a feeling Dean has heard it before. Maybe not in the most pleasant contexts. As if he can sense how tense Sam is about being touched right now, his lips are wide; they hardly close around him at all. So all Sam feels is warm air and spit. No pressure.

It's perfect. And Dean is… "oh God."

Sam is vaguely aware of a door creaking assumes it's in the adjoining apartment.

"Well, aren't you loud?" There's no mistaking a half-naked girl. She kicks Dean's leg. "Hey, little shit."

Dean never even comes up for air. He waves her away with one arm. Sam pulls him off and scrambles to shut his pants. The girl chuckles and shakes her head.

Sam would rather not notice all the skin, but it's not an option. Her legs are short and trim. There's a pale sliver between the silken fabric of her matching top and panties. The top half of a pink crescent shaped scar peeks out from the lace adorning her clavicle. She's not the same girl from the photo, although she's dark-haired, too. This girl is slimmer and less dressed. Sam's sunken heart reaction is no different.

He feels indecent just staring at her, so he looks away, unable to believe Dean would bring him here with a girl waiting. He tries to piece together whether it's a prank or Dean's idea of punishment.

Dean just wipes his mouth with the back of his arm.

Sam ventures another look and sees her more clearly in the faint glow of the TV. She's not a girl at all, but a young woman with yellowing bruises on her face. She is a good deal older than Dean, maybe a few years younger than Sam himself. And pretty. Even with the marks, she is very lovely, with delicate features and a slight figure that Sam has no trouble imagining nestled against Dean's lithe body. She must be a better fit than Sam's hulking form ever would.

The salad in his stomach starts to revolt, trying to escape the way it came in.

The woman looks Sam over like he's a shit smear on the bottom of her bare foot. "This your coach?"

Dean doesn't even look at her. "Jody, this is Sam. Sam, Jody."

Sam stands, more out of habit than respect. Jody gapes at his outstretched hand but does not shake it. Her eyes do, however, flicker to his crotch. "Well, he's fucking huge, isn't he?"

Dean shakes his head at her crass remark and starts flicking through the channels. "You ever see Encino Man?"

Sam shakes his head. He can't even begin to imagine what that is. He wipes his ignored hand on his slacks.

"Well, she's actually a neanderthal."

Jody looks back and forth between them. "Wait a minute. Did you do that to his face?"

Sam stammers. "No. Yes, but no. Not intentionally. I wouldn't..."

She aims her interrogation at Dean now. "What, while he was fucking you?"

"Jody. Get lost." Dean rolls his eyes.

"Rough love? That's what you like?"

"Oh, my God." Dean throws his hands up. "There was a minor car accident, okay?"

"So, you were blowing him." She nods, believing she's cracked the case.

"Jody. Shut up! Go get your whatever and leave us alone." Dean points at the kitchen.

She points a finger in Dean's face. "Don't you let him fucking hit you."

"He's not ... " Dean looks up Sam. "He's not like that."

"They never are at first." Jody scowls at Sam, gives him the middle finger and continues into the kitchen.

Sam huffs loudly and takes his place beside Dean again. "I'm sorry. Is she your sister?"

"More like my roommate?"

"More like his mother." Jody returns to the living room with a beer. She stands behind the sofa with her arms folded, like a chaperone.

Dean turns to look at her. "What do you want?"

"Can't I look?" She mumbles like a sulky child, still scrutinizing Sam.

Dean waves her off. "No. Go to bed."

"You know, Sam, my son is quite the little whore. But he doesn't usually bring them home."

Dean narrows his eyes. "Sometimes they've already been here, Jojo."

Jody sneers at Sam as if he had made the sassy remark. "Is that what you like about him? His smart mouth?"

"You know what, Jody?" Dean leaps from the couch, grabs her elbow and drags her into the kitchen.

Sam tries not to listen, but their voices are still audible, even over the nonsense on the television.

Dean asks, "What is your problem?"

"Why would you say something like that? It makes me sound like -"

Dean cuts her off. "Look, I've got company. I'm not going to do this with you now."

"What do you expect? I come out of my room, and you're on your fucking knees…"

"How many times have I caught you on your knees, Jody? Huh?" Dean blows out a breath. "Sam is okay. And he's going to stay until I say he has to leave."

Dean storms back to the couch. Jody storms across the living room and slams the door behind her. Sam sits his beer on the floor. "Should I go? I should probably just go."

Dean rests a hand on Sam's knee. "I don't want you to."

"But I should."

Suddenly, the bedroom door opens again. Jody stomps over and bows so low that Sam can feel her hot, foul breath on his face. She reeks of the cheap beer they're all drinking mixed with gastric acid and whatever she had for dinner. "Why are you fucking a 15-year-old?"

"Sam?"

"Sam?"

Sam's brain comes back online to what sounds like his name being spoken underwater. Or maybe Sam is underwater. Maybe that's why he can't breathe.

Dean is calling him. Dean, who is fifteen. Dean, who Sam has definitely touched in some inappropriate and highly illegal ways. That Dean is fifteen, and he's calling Sam.

Sam stands up and leaves because there isn't anything else to do.

He is aware of 15-year-old Dean following him, calling out to him. The boy's feet pitter patter after Sam down the steps. Someone is yelling behind one of these paper thin walls. Loud music on another floor. A baby cries.

Sam can't gather his thoughts enough to respond until they are on the sidewalk in front of the building. He takes a gulp of fresh air, turns and asks, "Is it true?"

"Does it matter?"

The sound that spills from Sam's throat can only be described as deranged laughter. It ends as abruptly as it erupts.

"She forgot my birthday." Dean finally answers, weakly.

"So, you're 16?" Sam closes his eyes and tries to process it. "Jesus." He huffs and covers his mouth with his hand. "Yes, Dean, it matters, because, for one thing, I don't want to go to jail."

"She's not going to call the cops. I don't even know what her deal is. She probably just wanted to get laid tonight and didn't."

"Good night, Dean." Sam folds himself into his car.

His tires screech against the pavement as he drives off, too fast. It's nowhere near fast enough.


	15. Chapter 15

Dean shuts the apartment door softly behind him, locks it and drags himself through the kitchen He breathes deep and slow, stalking slowly as if he's trudging through mud, to be sure he doesn't lose his shit.

Jody stands by her door, waiting with her arms folded, just like he knew she would be. "Dean, this guy…"

"Don't." Somehow, he manages to speak instead of screaming and not scream his lungs out. His entire body is shaking, and if Jody crosses the floor right now, her safety is not guaranteed. "Do not fucking talk to me."

"You're going to thank me. I have warned you over and over again about this. You don't get attached. I saw the way you looked at that guy. Like he's the sun and the fucking moon instead of some overgrown pedophile."

Dean hurls a shoe at her. He could have easily taken her head off, but he misses on purpose and puts a dent in the drywall. Jody gets the message, goes into her room and shuts the door.

He lays there for a long time, blinking at the ceiling.

With both of his hands wrapped around the phone on his chest, he picks it up and checks the screen again.

Around midnight, he'd sent:

DS: Hey

A couple hours after that:

DS: That's it, huh?

Two messages is Dean's limit. A guy's got to have some fucking pride.

At 3:13 AM, he thumbs in:

Think I left my wallet in your car

But he doesn't send it. Sam would see right through that bull. Dean doesn't even own a wallet.

"Fuck." He tosses the phone across the room and glues his eyes to the TV like his life depends on it.

Sam picks up the phone from his bedside table and silences the alarm. He's not sure if he slept. His body may as well be made of lead. Every movement is toil: getting up, the shower, the drive. Just sitting in the bank requires so much energy.

It's good that he had skipped breakfast. This whole thing with his accounts is enough to turn his stomach inside out. He should have seen it coming. In fact, he had.

The last time Castiel left, he had emptied 5K from Sam's checkings account in under a day. Luckily, some algorithm had alerted the bank to the abnormal spending patterns and Sam had been able to safeguard his simple savings before that was wiped out, too.

It's nothing new. At various times over the years, Cas has sent viruses to Sam's computer, shredded his work files, trashed his studio, dumped dog crap into his oolong. At least Sam assumed it was from a dog. There's no telling with Castiel.

This time, when Castiel left, Sam had changed all of his PINs the moment the door closed behind him. The next day, there was still a charge to one of his credit cards from a Holiday Inn. Sam had checked, and sure enough, that card was gone.

Cas hasn't held a job in years. Sam didn't want him on the street or worse. So, he decided to give him a little while to get settled. He set what felt like a reasonable limit of a few grand and checked back each evening to get an idea of how Cas was faring. Castiel had bought a few meals - and not inexpensive ones. He spent over $500 at some apparel shop. Sam had sighed and adjusted the allowance slightly higher. It was a matter of a few button clicks, and it wasn't like he couldn't afford it.

The money was gone within a week. Sam silently wished Castiel the best and hoped that would be the end of it.

For it to have come to this, Cas would have had to call the bank, impersonated Sam and say he'd forgotten the new access info. But again, it was nothing he would put past Castiel.

By the time Sam walks out of the bank all he wants to do is drive home, crawl into bed, pull the covers over his head and if possible, cry himself to death.

Instead, he goes to work.

A glob of turkey hash smacks wet against Dean's cheek, plops onto his shoulder and lands on the floor. Most everybody at the table laughs. He wipes the remaining foul-smelling moisture from his skin and looks at his hand.

His skin flushes hot. By the time Ash is picking himself up off the cafeteria floor, Dean is shoving his way through the double doors. The crisp air doesn't cool him down. Neither do the huge, deep breaths he's taking of it.

Hitting Ash was the dumbest thing he's done in a long time. Getting the hell out of there before he couldn't stop pummeling that asshole is probably the smartest.

Coach is going to have Dean's ass for this. Maybe he'll even be kicked off the team. Right now, he doesn't give much of a fuck.

Sam sits at his desk with his head in his hands. His body shakes, out of control. He hasn't thought about jumping off the building in a long time - at least since he met Dean.

Mrs. Mosely is a remarkably poor whisperer. "Is he crying?"

To his left, another co-worker answers just as loudly, "I don't know."

"Sam. Honey. You all right?" Mrs. Mosely slides her chair right beside him and places a warm hand on his shoulder.

Sam isn't crying. He is losing his fucking mind.

Gators run off the field, shouting. Blank-faced, Dean stands in the end zone, watching his teammates holler and carry on. Coach Winchester saunters over and claps him on the shoulder. His body lurches slightly from the contact. Dean makes a face that might look like a smile. He can't tell.

Apparently, Ash can keep his mouth shut. That asswipe just pretended like it never happened. Dean ought to be grateful and fired up about the win. But he doesn't feel anything, which is better than it could be.

He doesn't know why, but it's always been this way. The shittier he feels, the crappier things are at home, the more highly guaranteed he is to win. It's like his brain goes on auto-pilot and he plays like a robot.

The problem is, when the game's over, he's right back where he started.

On the bright side, if Sam never talks to him again, Gators are going all the way to state.

In the dim light of the parking garage, Sam furrows his brow. He leans over to examine the bold, ugly scratches on the door of his car that spell out the word: FAG

He tries to wipe it off with his sleeve, scrape it away with his thumbnail. It's a lost cause.

"You changed the locks."

Sam gasps and jumps nearly out of his skin. Even before he spins around, he recognizes the voice. "Jesus, Cas."

He grabs his chest as if he could slow the overactive beating of his heart.

"Did I scare you?"

Without moving his face, Sam watches Castiel's hand run down his shoulder.

"Miss you. So much. Wanted to surprise you, but you changed the locks." He smiles sweetly. "Did you have a break in or something? See? I told you that neighborhood wasn't so great."

Cas' hand is on Sam's face now. The other one tugs his shirt from his pants. "Why didn't you come look for me? You always look for me. Then you find me and we go home. Why didn't you do that?"

Castiel's hands are around Sam's neck, gently, firmly drawing him down. The door clicks open and voices flood the garage. A small swell of panic grips Sam as he recognizes his co-workers. So far as he knows, Castiel has never hurt anyone but him - and even that only mildly. But Sam wouldn't put anything past him.

Castiel slaps Sam's face, just enough to get his attention. "I'm right here. Why would you change the fucking locks, Sam?"

His voice is growing progressively louder. He still hangs off Sam's neck like a twisted talisman.

Sam glances over at Mrs. Mosley as she walks to her car with Dick Roman from HR. They've both stopped in their tracks to watch.

"Castiel." Sam tries to peel his arms away.

"What?"

Sam looks at his co-workers, at his car door and down into Castiel's eyes. Oddly, they appear storm-grey in this light.

Cas looks at Sam's car over his shoulder and grins. "Oh, yeah. Isn't that horrible? I know you don't like people to know" - he whispers behind hand - "that about you. That's why you always keep me hidden. But I don't mind. I love you anyway, Sammy. I always loved you and I'm always going to love you. No matter how much you hate yourself."

Castiel tries to hug him, but Sam holds him at arm's distance.

Mrs. Mosley hits Dick Roman's arm. He rolls his eyes but then asks Sam with a look whether he's okay. Sam replies with a nod and a tight-lipped smile as he waves them off.

They leave, but not before Mrs. Mosley gives one more concerned glance over her shoulder

All the while Castiel murmurs into Sam's shirt, "I didn't mean to stay gone so long, Sammy. I just ... needed to clear my head, you know. My poor baby. You must be so lonely. I know how lonely you get, even with everybody all around. How you get so sad and pitiful." Castiel strokes Sam's face as if he were a cat. "I don't want you to be sad anymore, Sammy. I want to come home and take care of you."

"Cas." Sam snakes away again.

Castiel stands on his tiptoes with Sam's face in his hands. His eyes darkens, voice lowers an octave. "Fuck me, Sam. I want you to fuck me right here."

He spreads himself out over the hood of Sam's car.

"Castiel, please." Sam breathes hard, watching for spectators.

"Come on, Sammy. Nobody's going to see you. Nobody's ever going to find out about you. I didn't tell them before, did I? No. And I'm not going to tell them now. I just need you to fuck me. I need it. I need your cock in me so bad."

It's only now that Sam realizes Castiel is wearing a black leather mini-skirt. It's not his first time in women's clothing and wouldn't be all that jarring except that there's nothing underneath it. He hikes it up around his stomach and shoves two fingers into his anus.

The door opens again. Sam grabs Castiel by his blouse and drags him to the back of the car. He swiftly pulls the skirt back down. Cas yells, "Don't touch me like that."

"Hey, everything okay over there." It's a male voice Sam doesn't recognize.

He stands between Castiel and the man, trying to shield them from each other's view.

Cas shoves Sam and says, "This man..."

In a last-ditch effort to keep his insane private life private, Sam mashes his lips to Castiel's. The guy apologizes and Sam's pulse lowers a notch as he hears the footsteps receding.

Cas leaps into the air. Years of muscle memory make Sam catch him. He promptly sits the much smaller man on the back of the car. Castiel laughs and starts to open Sam's belt, ankles locking him in place.

"No." Sam catches his hands.

"You can't tell me no." Cas squirms to free himself.

"Castiel, it's over."

"No, it's not." He fights harder.

Sam holds his wrists tightly. "It is."

Cas shakes his head, lips taut.

"You and me. We're done." Sam's voice is calm, but his heart beats out of control. His throat is tight, mouth dry like he's been gargling sand. He steps back from between Castiel's legs, huffs out a breath, and fixes his hair. "You need to... you need to get some help."

Castiel snickers. "You can't do that."

Sam nods, takes a deep breath and leaves him there, stunned. He sits in the driver's seat and stares ahead with hands on the wheel. He should have done this five years ago. Better late than never.

The moment of silence is shattered by a horrible scraping and pounding overhead as Castiel scrambles over the car to the windshield. He slides down and beats on the glass with his fists. He takes off a high-heeled shoe, bangs with it and yells. Not words. Just an awful shrieking that reverberates off the concrete, echoing like demons shouting back from the depths of hell. He stops for a moment, apparently enjoying the sound. Then he calls out in a chillingly feminine voice, "HELP! RAPE!"

Castiel stops the moment Sam gets out of the car. He glares at the open passenger side door. Eventually, he slides off the hood. He sniffs, adjusts his skirt and juts his chin into the air. He holds his hand out, wrist delicately arched.

Sam shakes his head, but escorts him to the seat, slams the door shut, gets behind the wheel and drives off. "Where do you want me to take you?"

"Home. Silly." Castiel giggles and pulls at Sam's face.

Left hand on the wheel, Sam manages to hold him off. "Are you still at the Holiday Inn on Radford?"

Castiel's face falls. "You knew and you didn't come for me?"

"I told you…"

Cas frowns, turns his knees forward and lets his chin drop to his chest. "The card ran out. I kept expecting you to come. Kept waiting for you. I have to blow the stupid manager every day I want to stay. He's this big, fat, nasty guy who probably can't even see his own ugly, little cock. If he could he wouldn't show it to anyone else."

Sam steels himself against Cas' whining. "You need to go somewhere else then."

"I don't have any money. I don't have anything but that stupid dog. I don't have anything. All I have is you. And all you have is me. That's why we're so good together."

Sam shakes his head and swats away Castiel's reaching hands.

"I miss you, Sammy. I miss your beautiful cock and your beautiful smile and your gigantic hands on me and your goofy hair all over the place." Castiel makes a sounds halfway between a sob and a laugh. "I only left because I... I wanted you to miss me, too."

When they arrive at the hotel, Sam offers Castiel all of his cash: three twenty dollar bills. "It's all I have."

Cas eyes his wallet. "It's not all you have."

Sam looks through, sighs and pulls out another card. "Castiel, look at me. I need you to understand that this is it. I can't do this with you anymore. No more money. No more contact. Tell me you understand that."

Castiel frowns at the card in his hand. "You're going to be sorry."

"Cas."

Castiel wipes away his tears with his palm "You're gonna be so fucking lonely without me. You're never going to find anybody else because you're too afraid for anyone to know what you are. And I hope you rot. Alone. In hell, you fucking pathetic closet case."

He stumbles out and doesn't bother to close the door before he stomps away on one broken shoe.

Dean gnaws at his cuticle. He bites his lip bloody and forbids himself to do what every cell in his body is dying to do. He is not going to cry. If there's one place he could get away with it, it's here, but he hasn't yet and he isn't going to do it now. Dean will fucking jump off a bridge before he lets himself cry. He clamps down on it - muscles tense, lungs burning from his refusal to breathe.

He nods in gratitude for the tea that Mildred sets in front of him. He sighs, breath mingling with the steam.

Mildred taps his back. "You know, if it's as bad as all that, Joanna Winchester is carrying a big, bright torch for you. She's a really sweet girl."

"I know." He digs at one eye with the heel of his hand, suddenly so exhausted.

"I understand. The heart wants what it wants." Mildred sits down in the chair across from him. "Well, what exactly is the problem? I thought this girl likes you, too."

"I think … she does. It's just … a matter of timing, I guess." Dean's voice quivers.

"Meaning?" Mildred takes a slog of her tea.

"Meaning, I am, apparently, too young for - her." He sniffles, just once, but it's enough to make him feel like a complete loser.

"Oh, child. Do you know I was your age when I married my first husband? If I had it to do over, I wouldn't get married at all."

"I don't want to marry him, for fuck's sake. I just … It's not fair."

Mildred doesn't bat an eye at the pronoun. "No. I suppose it's not. What can you do about it?"

Dean has been so caught up in feeling helpless and acting normal around everyone else, that he hadn't thought of it that way. "Come back here in two years and hope he still wants me. Or fucking get over it." He nods, resolved. "I'll just get over it."

Mildred nods, thoughtfully, as well.

Dean has a sip of his tea. It's peppermint but kicks his throat a little more than an herb in water should do. "Did you spike this?"

She shrugs and hides an impish grin behind her mug as she has another drink.

Fork in his right hand, phone in his left, Sam eats steak while he surveys meat. No one seems to post anything other than dick pics and abs. Shaking his head, he deletes the app and puts down his cell.

A hostess guides a family with two kids. One of them is a boy - maybe 13 - round face covered in acne. Sam holds his breath and turns his entire body away from them as if they have the plague. Or as if Sam does and knows himself to be contagious.

He should have known. Maybe he had. Most kids are out of school by 18. Sam had Dean pegged for 17, which is, technically, still illegal. But it's not 16. And what's the difference, really, between 16 and 15? What if he were 14? Would Sam still have been attracted to him? Attraction is physical. You can't control what your body wants. You can control what your body does and that's what Sam is doing - staying the hell away.

What about the mind? Can you control who you fall for?

Fall for

'Christ.'

As much as he'd like to deny it, Sam was definitely starting to fall for a 16-year-old.

'Just what kind of sicko am I?'

He wonders, not for the first time since last night, about the men on sex offenders lists. Are they allowed to just eat and shop and go anywhere? Or do they have some sort of ID that keeps them out of respectable establishments like this one? Sam should probably leave.

The family is seated at the table right in front of him, with the children facing in his direction. The worse part? Sam is wearing a sport jacket, just like that creep who had followed Dean. He raises his hand for his check.

Dean nurses his beer and rolls his eyes as the bottle spins. It's a juvenile game, but he has nowhere better to be. He's still not sure why he agreed to come to this thing. Having six people over on a Thursday night just because your parents aren't home does not a party make.

The neck of the bottle lands on this dark-haired kid named Bradley. Carter, whose house it is, sticks out his tongue and acts like he's going to throw up. Everybody laughs, including Dean (although he doesn't see what's so fucking funny). Bradley sits there like he's been turned to stone. Carter makes this big speech about how it's his house, and he should get a free spin.

They're both decent looking. Dean would fuck either one of them.

Sam's eyes grow wide like a kid in a sex club. His heart beats out of his chest. He's never been anywhere like this without Cas. Technically, it's not a sex club. It's just a bar, but still.

Once his eyes adjust to the lighting, they wander over all the leather, the many many full beards and the chains. They take in the glass surfaces, and all the mirrors. Finally, he sees himself. He fixes the collar on the black leather jacket he never wears for a reason. He looks like a Fonz wannabe.

His pants are too tight. What the hell was he thinking? He can totally see the outline of his shaft. And if he can see it… Sam shakes his head at his reflection and turns on his heels to get out of here before he makes an even bigger ass of himself.

A man is right in front of him, which means this man was right behind him only a second ago.

"Hey." He scans Sam's body, eyes widening at the bulge.

He's nice looking, dark skinned. In his button-down shirt and jeans, he's dressed like a normal person, not a cowboy from hell. He's half a foot shorter, but Sam's used to that. The guy smiles brightly, though and offers his hand, also like a normal person. "Gordon."

Gordon guesses, correctly, that Sam has never been here. He offers to show Sam around and introduces him to a few people. He buys Sam a drink. Before it even arrives, his hand is on Sam's thigh - way high on Sam's thigh. He's telling jokes and laughing at them himself.

He's a dentist, if Sam heard him right. Seems like a nice enough guy and exactly what Sam was looking for: someone who looks, sounds, smells and acts nothing like Dean.

It takes Carter and Bradley about ten minutes of evasion to finally get it over with. Even then, it's just a quick peck. They both back away, wiping off their tongues with their sleeves and groaning like they had just eaten a pile of dog shit.

'Morons.'

It's lips. There's no difference - unless the guy is older and he hasn't shaved in a day, and he has really great cologne.

Dean sighs.

This hot blonde, Niki, has been leaning up against him all night. She spins, and it lands on Carter, but she nudges it over to Dean. Carter practically has a fit. Dean has seen him watching her all night and feels a little bad for him. Not a lot, though.

Dean works on his beer and lets them hash it out. Finally, it's decided that because she has already kissed Carter and not Dean, that it's Dean's turn.

He honestly couldn't care less. Sits down his bottle and makes space for the girl to kneel in his lap. It makes her skirt ride way up. Dean puts his hands on her waist. She rests her arms on his shoulders. And as great as all this is and as ready to go as his dick it, part of him wants to knock her ass on the floor.

It's a messed up thing to think, and he doesn't do it. He gives her a cocky smile and whispers, "How you doing, sweetheart?"

She melts against him like butter: warm and soft and wrong wrong wrong

Girls are easy.

Guys are even easier, to be honest. Guys, it's all below the belt. You can pretty much grab a guy's cock and he won't complain.

Chicks, it's all above the shoulders. Girls want nuance. They want to be talked to a certain way, looked at just right. Kissed all soft and sweet, at least at first.

Then you fuck. Then it's over.

That's how Dean plays it. Every time. Up until now.

He's never had somebody stuck on his brain and under his skin like it is with Sam. He hates it so bad, he could scream. Instead, he leans in, kisses this girl dizzy and tries not to think of anything else.

'Why didn't I just kiss him? What kind of idiot passes up a chance like that?'

He can't even pretend this girl is Sam. Her body is 50 different kinds of wrong.

He does it anyway - kisses her like it's Sam. 'Cause Sam ain't here and she is. Sam is probably never going to talk to Dean's sorry ass again. The fuck if he's going to be celibate the rest of his life.

He swipes his tongue against hers and she hums. Dean pulls back to take a look at his handiwork. Her eyes are still closed. She's just kind of swaying on his lap, mouth slightly parted. Her eyes flutter open, and she leans in for another go. Carter makes a sound like a buzzer from a game show. "One kiss."

Niki flips him the bird, stands up and takes Dean's hand. She leads him to the can like a lamb to slaughter.

The bass is so loud, Sam can feel it in his teeth. The walls vibrate. The whole place stinks of sweat, semen, and unwashed ass. There are probably other odors in this stall that Sam, in his limited experience, can't even identify.

He turns his face aside as a slimy mouth clamps onto his neck and slurps like a leech. Sam's nose turns up in spite of his earnest desire to enjoy this. He has never just had a hook up in his life. It's about time, right? One night stands are supposed to be great stress relief, right?

'Just go with it. Stop thinking and go with it.'

Niki acts like she's starving. She latches onto Dean's neck and makes these greedy moans that might be a turn on under different circumstances. Her fingers creep up his shirt, and as much as he wants to bat them away, he lets her.

When she finally comes up for air, he grins, because that's what the hell he's supposed to do. Of course, Dean is hard, because he's alive and some girl is clawing at his zipper. She gets her hand down his pants and, yeah, it's good. He closes his eyes and lets her. She's clearly done this before and obviously never to herself. It's a valiant attempt, though and he doesn't say anything. Most girls just get thrown off when you give them instructions.

Dean's eyes open again when she lets him go. She leans her feather-weight with one hand on his shoulder in order to reach down to pluck her underwear from her ankles.

"Crap. I don't have a condom?" It's a lie. Dean is always, always prepared.

"I've got one in my purse. Hold these." She hands Dean her panties and starts for the door.

He catches her arm and pulls her back into a kiss. He gets his fingers down between her legs and, man, is she wet. Just from that little bit of kissing. His dick responds to how moist she is and makes him say, "Damn, girl," because he's alive and she's hot.

But some other part of him is in panic mode. His heart is beating all fast, not in a good way. As if he doesn't know exactly where this is going. Or as if he doesn't like it, when usually he loves it.

Niki juice is running all down his fingers like he's been rolling and squeezing her for days. He flicks his thumb over her clit. She makes a sound he usually loves. It makes him kind of sick this time. Her body rolls, she leans her forehead against his shoulder.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and lets the guy's fingers spider down his chest. The stranger - Greg? - fumbles over Sam's crotch and croaks. "Damn, you're hung. I can't wait to get that inside me."

Greg tastes like an ashtray. Sam pulls his mouth away and winds up with a tongue jammed into his ear. He shudders and cleans it with his finger. "Listen, I'm … I'm sorry. I just … This isn't me."

He stumbles out of the bathroom stall and leaves Greg - or whatever his name is - with his mouth and pants hanging open.

This is what Dean needs. This girl, right now, to wipe Sam away. Something else on his mind, in his arms. He sticks his fingers in his mouth. Niki tastes like ham. She whimpers, "God, I want you to do it."

"Yeah?" Her tits are a little less than a handful, but that's all right.

"Yeah." She leans against him, so small, so sweet. The anti-Sam. "But I don't without …"

"Smart girl." He pretends to frown, secretly more relieved than disappointed.

Niki reaches for his dick again. Dean ignores her vice grip and her clumsy confidence. He squeezes his eyes shut. When he comes, it's to a crystal clear image of Sam on his knees - hazel eyes staring up into his.

The girl smiles over her shoulder at him while she washes her hands. "See you out there."

Dean nods and leans back like he's holding up the wall. He grins until the bathroom door closes behind her.

Sam sits in his car, trying his best not to hyperventilate. He huffs out a breath when his phone alerts him to a new text.

DS: What ever happened to friends?

Sam shakes his head and whimpers, "Please."

Perched on the toilet with his pants still hanging open, Dean looks down at his phone. "Come on, Sam."

He drops his head in his hand. Grimacing, he grinds the heel of his palm in circles, as if he could wipe away the want.

At the final whistle, the Gator's crowd roars along with the team. Dean just laughs. He lets his teammates hoist him onto their shoulders and laughs some more.

A couple of guys douse Garth with what's left of the ice water in the cooler. Then, they all file into the locker room. A cute, bookish girl with thick-ass glasses, a pad, and a pencil approaches Dean. "Do you have anything you want to say about the game?"

Coach Winchester steps between them and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You know they don't print your name, son. It'll just say 'the Gator's quarterback.'"

Dean clears his throat. "Well, um, we got off to a rocky start, and they were pretty tough. But we just got in there and did what had to be done."

It isn't poetry, but that's the game, in a nutshell. The coach claps his back and Dean runs off to catch the rest of the squad. Jo bounces down from the bandstand and waves her flute. She still has on that crazy band hat with the green and black Roman mohawk. He smiles and waves back.

By the time Dean is dressed, showered and out of the locker room, Jo has changed out of her uniform. She's as cute as ever, waiting for him by the front pillars near the main entrance. She's got on just the right amount of that sugar-sweet perfume to make him want to stand closer. The curl of her ponytail hangs over her shoulder like a little invitation.

Maybe Dean's finally getting over the Sam thing because he's feeling kind of weightless and immortal like he does after most victories. He reaches out and tugs on her hair.

Jo's flower-pink chapstick glistens in the artificial light of the parking lot street lamps. It would be so easy and taste so good. She would just open up to him like she did before. No one would have any problem with it. Everyone would think it was great. He could close his eyes and pretend she's whoever he wants. It would be so easy with Jo.

But she's just Jo. That's good in a different way and he's done leading her on. "Hey."

She smiles so cute, it's a shame. "Hey. You coming to Ash's party?"

Dean opens his mouth to say 'sure' when his phone buzzes.

"I guess you have to get that." Jo faces away with her arms folded.

"Let me just see who it is."

SW: That was fucking amazing

SW: Never seen a kid handle the ball like that

Dean's heart flips in his chest. He searches the entire parking lot but doesn't see Sam anywhere. It's getting dark, but most of the cars are gone. If he's close, Dean should be able to see him. He texts back:

DS: R U still here?

Jo gives Dean's back a gentle nudge. "Who are you always texting?"

"Nobody. Just give me a second." He hunches his shoulders a little to hide his screen.

SW: Looking right at you. Who's that?

DS: You don't recognize your own sister?

SW: Jo? Don't see her often.

SW: You guys friends?

DS: Where the fuck R U?!

SW: See if you can find me?

Dean struggles to keep his grin and his groin under control. He turns to Jo. "Why don't you go ahead? I'll catch up."

"You have a ride?" Her eyes wander around the campus, trying to figure out what Dean is looking for.

He's already running when he yells back, "Yeah. I'll see you."

Jo watches him all the way across the parking lot. Dean doesn't notice because he never turns back around. Finally, she turns and goes back into the school.

Dean runs directly to the woods behind the field. Sam leans against a tree with one knee bent in what is supposed to be a very 1980s John Cusack pose. He hopes he's pulling it off and doesn't look quite as ridiculous as he feels.

Dean ducks beneath a branch and sweeps his eyes over the length of Sam. He wets his lips. "So, this mean we're good?"

Sam swallows thickly and lets the warmth of Dean's gaze wash down his body. The kid steps in front of him and brushes hot hands over Sam's shoulders.

"Dean. I'm not really a good person." Sam's inability to stay away from him is just another proof of that. "I don't want to hurt you."

Dean smirks as his palms rove down Sam's chest. "You can't hurt me, Sammy."

"Don't call me that."

"What? Sammy?" Dean's brow raises, incredulous.

"Yeah. Don't." Sam shakes his head. He looks at the ground to keep his depraved eyes off this ravishing child. "It would never be intentional, but I hurt everyone."

"I think I can handle it." Dean's hand shifts to Sam's belt.

Sam catches his wrist. "Look, there's no law against us being friends."

Dean leans near enough for their chests to touch. He stands on his toes and breathes, warm and moist into Sam's ear. "Would you stop with that? I don't want to be your friend, Sam."

"That hurts my feelings." Sam clutches Dean's narrow waist - tries to hold him away.

Dean snaps his hips forward, makes Sam feel his arousal. "You know exactly what I mean."

Sam groans. He crushes Dean close for a second. Then pushes him back and takes a deep breath. He adjusts himself through the straining fabric of his pants and looks over Dean's shoulder at movement among the trees.

Dean glances back in the direction of Sam's gaze. "Hey, buddy," he says slow and easy, turning around.

A lanky, goofy looking kid stands there like a slack-jawed statue. "I didn't see anything."

"You sure?" Dean approaches him slowly.

The other boy's eyes flick to Sam who scratches the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact.

"Nothing. It was dark and… Is that Coach's kid?"

Sam's heart clenches.

Dean takes the boy's face between his hands and gently smacks his cheek. "It's no one. Because you didn't see anything."

"Yeah." The skinny one nods emphatic, eyes fixed on Dean's.

An irrational pang of jealousy courses through Sam. He tamps it down. 'This guy isn't Dean's type. Is he?'

Then again, Sam had been all limbs and knobby joints like that in middle school. The boy's peculiar face is still contorted in shock. Dean's hands are on his neck.

'Friends. We're friends. He can touch who he wants.' Sam diverts his eyes and reminds himself that he has no right to despise the tender way Dean handles this kid.

"Good boy, Garth. Now, run along," Dean tells him, and the other kid scurries like his tail is on fire.

Sam sighs. "You're sure he's not going to say anything?"

"What would you suggest I do? Kill him?" Dean watches Garth run across the field.

"No. Obviously. I don't know … You could pay him?"

Dean turns his head at the suggestion. "Seriously? That what you did?"

"No one ever knew about me." The one time he thought a teacher suspected, Sam had become closely acquainted with his father's handguns.

"Is that what you would have done?"

Sam reaches up and snaps a twig from a branch above his head. "I don't know what I would have done. I just know that if you're not ready to come out …"

Dean snatches the stick from Sam's hand and tosses it to the ground. "There's no … there's no coming out to be done. I'm having a conversation with a friend here. We're friends, right? You and me."

"Yeah." Sam's smile is strained and false. "I guess there won't be a problem, then."

"No. It won't." Dean turns back to stare across the field.

The skinny kid has vanished. Sam bites his lip, balls his hands into fists, presses his own back into the tree and wishes there was a chain to bind him there. To keep him from touching Dean the way he wants to, so badly.

"So, what are you going to do now?" Dean tosses the question over his shoulder.

"Go home, I guess." Sam barely hears his own voice.

Dean nods. "Can I come? Just hang out."


	16. Chapter 16

Dean lays like a seal, flat on his stomach with his head next to Sam's crossed ankles. His legs are bent at the knee, feet hover in the air behind him. He shovels Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey into his grinning face. Banana, cream and fudge dance on his tongue before it all slides cold down his throat.

 _'_ _ _The good life.'__

He trails the end of his spoon down the center of Sam's bare sole and smiles when Bigfoot wiggles his toes.

A glob of ice cream spills out of Dean's mouth as he laughs at Ricky Bobby saying he wants to go fast, just like he does every time. He checks Sam's reaction over his shoulder. Sam isn't laughing at all. He's sort of smiling, watching Dean as if he's on the screen.

Dean rolls onto his side to get a better view of Sam. "You don't like it?"

Sam purses his lips. "It's good. I'm enjoying it. I am." His voice is quiet as ever, all clipped and proper.

Dean lifts the hem of Sam's shirt.

"Dean, what part of -"

"Sam, shut up." He drops a dollop into Sam's navel and grins at the sharp hiss and wriggle it produces from his giant plaything.

He sucks out the ice cream and licks up the residue. The way Sam's muscles roll and contract under his tongue is even better than all the sweet. He's starting to get hard just from that.

"This is what you do with your friends," Sam asks breathlessly.

"Yup. Every last one of 'em." Dean lifts up to his knees, scoops up some ice cream. He crawls up the bed and holds it to Sam's pursed lips. "Come on. Try some."

Sam shakes his head and makes a face like a little kid being offered Brussels sprouts. "I told you. Sugar. And milk. They don't agree with me."

"What does that even mean? Who doesn't like ice cream, Sam? Just try it."

Sam squirrels his face away from the spoon. "I don't like it. Never have. I only got it because I thought you would."

Dean straddles his chest. Sam's humongous hands wrap around Dean's hips as he tries to keep him from coming any closer. Sam leans to the side, dead set on keeping his eyes on the screen. Dean bobs and weaves and moves every which way to make sure he's blocking Sam's view. In retaliation, Sam comes for Dean's ribs.

"No no no no no no. Forget it. Never mind." Dean drops the spoon on the bed so that he can clamp his arms shut in self-defense.

He curls up like a hedgehog, trying to hide every tender part of him from Sam's relentless fingers. Sam burrows his face in Dean's neck, growling low in his throat. That tickles worse than everything else he's doing.

"Fuck. Okay. Okay. You win."

Sam raises his arms in triumph. Dean shudders and rolls away. Catching his breath, he picks up the sticky spoon. "Look what you made me do."

"It's okay. I can change the sheets." Sam tips it into the ice cream container and puts them both on his bedside table.

"Come on. Try it." Dean breathes out and leans close enough for Sam to smell the awesomeness on his tongue.

"It's all melted." Sam turns up his nose.

Dean rubs his balls back and forth over Sam's broad and rock solid chest. He grabs the spoon and holds it to Sam's mouth. "Doesn't matter. It's still fucking delicious. Just eat it."

The pink tip of his tongue sticks out for a tiny taste. He grimaces when he's fed.

Dean smacks his chest. "It's good, and you know it."

"It's okay," Sam admits around the silverware.

"Here, have some more. Open up, Sammy."

"Don't call me that, Dean." Sam turns his head away from the flying spoon airplane. "No. That's enough."

Dean grips his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Just eat it, Sam. Stop being a freak."

Sam sighs and opens his mouth. He lets Dean feed him every last drop of the remaining ice cream.

"Good, wasn't it?"

Sam nods, licking the residue from his lips.

"Told you." Dean sets the empty container aside and wipes Sam's mouth with his thumb. "Now, if you're going to change the sheets anyway..."

"Dean."

"I'm just saying." Dean stares at Sam's lips and licks his own.

Sam turns his eyes to the ceiling. "I thought we agreed."

"Yeah, I know. We agreed. Would you be a __friend__ and help me with this?" Dean tilts his hips up toward Sam's face. "Please, Sam? Just … Would you just touch me? Please?"

Sam winces, like he's scared to do it. He stares a hole in the wall as he rubs Dean over his jeans. Dean moans, braces his hands on his back and sways into the touch. His hands flit over Sam's shoulders. He bows until their foreheads meet and breathes in Sam's cologne. "God, I want you."

Sam shakes his head.

Dean pours every ounce of his frustration and need into one word: "Sam."

Sam sighs long and hard before he opens Dean's fly and frees him. His insanely large hand fists loosely around Dean and strokes in steady, even pulls. His thumb slips over Dean's slit to gather up the juice and slick his dick up so nice. Dean droops over Sam's face, whimpering.

Nice. That's what it is. Nice.

Dean has never - would never - touch himself this way. He is quick and to the point with his self-loving. This is merciless. It's so good, he might die from it.

After a few agonizing minutes, Sam is still jacking him so slow it's brutal. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and clutches the back of Sam's neck. His breath hitches. "Fuck you, Sam. Bring me off."

"Patience." Sam presses a palm into the small of Dean's back and keeps at his leisurely pace.

That centering, grounding hand is the last straw. Dean can't take it anymore. His hips drive themselves frantically into Sam's fist. He gropes and grasps at the man's shirt, grinding and whining like some little kid who's never been touched in his life.

Sam wraps an arm around his waist. "Shh. It's okay. It's okay, baby. I got you."

Nobody calls Dean fucking Baby. For some reason, his muscles seize up at the word. Just as he's about to sail over the cliff, Sam tightens his fingers around the base of his shaft.

"Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck? What are you doing to me?" Dean lurches forward and whimpers at the tension built up so thick, he is going to fucking explode, if Sam would only let him.

"It's okay. Trust me."

Dean tries to claw Sam's hand away, beats his fists against Sam's chest. "Let me come. Let me come, Sam."

"I will. I promise. Just trust me. Okay?" That hand, the one on his back, is so warm and gentle, stroking him like a troubled horse.

Dean whimpers again and finally, nods. Sam, again, with the slow slide of his hand. Pre-come dribbles over his fingers. Dean's mouth falls open, thighs tremble against Sam's sides. Sam's other hand drops from his back to caress up and down his thigh. He stares up at Dean, hazel eyes gone dark. Dean slips his fingers into Sam's hair, intending to hold him in place and make him end this. Sam's grip tightens around the base of Dean's dick again. "You ready, baby?"

Dean pants, shaking his muddled head. "You fucker."

When his poor, tortured dick stops throbbing, Sam hands it over and slides down the mattress to lay flat on his back. "Come in my mouth."

Dean jacks himself the right way: hard and fast, breathing like a racehorse. Usually, Dean would describe orgasm like being shoved off a cliff - in a good way. What's happening to him now is more like being swept up in a tornado - gut clenched, breathless, helpless, shuddering, resistance fucking futile.

Tears pool in the corners of his eyes. The word 'pleasure' doesn't cut it. There isn't a word for it. It's so fucking good he doesn't even know what language he's speaking. Senseless sounds tumble from him as rope after rope of come spills into Sam's open mouth.

Smiling, Sam wipes it out of his eye, off his cheeks and licks it from his fingers.

"Holy fuck." Dean shudders, still coming down.

Since the guy seems to be starving for it, Dean uses the tip of his dick to clean Sam's chin and feed him more. Sam sticks out his tongue. Dean quivers and draws in a quick breath, like some kind of virgin. Sam chuckles. "You good?"

"You are one filthy bastard." Dean drops his spent body onto the bed.

"You're delicious. What can I say?" He licks his lower lip.

"Fuck." Dean covers his eyes with his arms for a moment. "Fu… Is that how you do it?"

"Sometimes." Sam rolls onto his side and wipes the sweat from Dean's brow.

"Shit." This is one of the moments when Dean realizes what he's missed out not having a guy around while he was growing up. He reaches over and massages Sam's massive wood. "Can I do something for you?"

"No, thank you."

"Come on." Dean flicks open Sam's button.

"No, seriously. I'm fine for now." Sam lifts Dean's hand and plants a kiss on his knuckles.

Dean's sigh turns into a gaping yawn. That wins a laugh from Sam, which gives Dean a weird warm sensation he's not really familiar with. He's isn't going to fight for a dick in his mouth as tired as he is. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Dean falls asleep to the drone of engines and conversations he knows by heart. A content smile spreads on his face as he slips under.

Before his eyes open again, he knows by the scene that only a few minutes have passed

When he wakes, Sam is staring at him.

He smacks his lips, ice cream sweet gone a little sour. "Yeah. That's not creepy at all."

Sam smiles and kneads his thigh. Dean is slender, but he's not skinny. Still, but Sam's hand wraps nearly halfway around and dig into the flesh just beneath his ball sack. "Shit."

Dean tries to adjust himself, but it's too late.

"Again?"

All Dean can do is shrug an apology for his overactive body.

"Do you have any condoms with you?" Sam's voice is hardly more than a breath.

"Of course. What do you … "

Sam nods toward the living room where Dean abandoned his backpack when they arrived. "Go get them."

Dignity flies out of the window. Instantly forgetting his own exhaustion, Dean dives from the bed, clumsily tripping over his sagging jeans. He doesn't even give a shit that Sam is laughing at him as he hops out of the pants and scrambles from the bedroom.

Sam is undressed by the time his young lover returns. The boy's bare body is sun-kissed and lightly freckled. Sam drinks him in all the way to his toes. A small packet hangs from between straight, pearl-white teeth. Dean strokes himself and kneels on the edge of the bed. Sam smiles up at this Adonis, beauty on the verge of breaking his heart. "God. Look at you."

Dean actually looks down at his own flawless body and rubs the hand not on his cock across his smooth chest. There is a semi-circular raised scar on Dean's chest, just below his clavicle. Sam had seen it before, when they went into Doggett's Creek, but he'd been somewhat preoccupied with dunking Dean and having his brain sucked out through his cock and hadn't gotten around to asking then.

If he didn't know better, he would say it's an Islamic crescent. Besides the fact that there's no star, it doesn't fit what he knows of Dean.

Intriguing though it is, Sam is far more entranced by the way the kid tweaks an already stiff, pink nipple and spits the unopened condom onto the bed. "You want me to…"

Sam nods. "If you want to."

He appears to sway slightly on his feet. "You know, I'm clean. I mean, if you wanted … I got tested as part of the physical to join the team, and I haven't done anything unprotected since then, so … you know."

Sam shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He doesn't even want to think about what Dean is offering, because he knows he can't accept. He wraps a palm around his own weeping cock. "I haven't been tested in a while."

"But you've only been with the one guy, right?" Dean probably doesn't realize that he's whining or know how adorable it is.

"Yes. Only he wasn't exactly, always, all that faithful." Sam turns his eyes to the TV and swallows back his emotion.

He needs to not look at Dean for just a second. The whole thing is getting to be a little bit overwhelming and he doesn't want to start crying on him again.

"Oh. Okay."

Not for the first time, Sam wishes he could strangle Castiel. "I wanted to … get tested. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I will. Just … we should be careful for now?"

Dean licks his lips and nods eagerly. "Yeah, okay. That's cool. So, how do you want to do this?"

Sam chuckles and flips onto his stomach.

"Are you serious? That's what you want?"

Sam buries his face in the mattress and nods. "If it's okay with you."

"Shit, yeah."

There's not any way for Sam to convey how very much he wants this that doesn't involve singing telegram and fireworks, so he just lays still with his cheek resting on his forearm.

Dean's palms rove carefully over the scars on the backs of Sam's thighs. Sam tenses and waits for the inevitable litany of questions about them. It doesn't come. Dean rolls on the condom, hops up and immediately lodges the tip of his cock between Sam's cheeks.

"Whoa, whoa, kid." Sam clenches his ass and props up onto his elbows.

He is loathe to think that anyone had ever taken Dean that way. Sam hands Dean the lube.

"Sorry." Dean takes the container.

Sam blows out a breath and eases back down at the sound of the liquid squelching. "Just kind of … open me up a little."

"Yeah, okay."

"And don't be in such a rush. I'm not going anywhere." That is a promise.

Dean palms both globes of Sam's ass. He kneads and gives him a sharp smack. Sam sucks in a quick breath. That's more like it.

Carefully, Dean draws one of his cheeks aside and pours on the cool liquid. Sam gasps as it slides over his entrance.

"That okay?"

Sam nods. It's cold but fine.

A fingertip drags over his entrance. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean watching his face for any further protest.

The kid presses the pad of a finger against Sam's opening. When there is no complaint, the tip of Dean's tongue peeks out between his lips in concentration. Sam smiles. _'_ _ _So cute.'__

Dean cautiously applies a bit more pressure until the finger is swallowed to the first knuckle. It burns a little at first, but no worse than when Sam prods himself.

"You good?"

Sam nods. "You can go for two, if you want."

"Who's impatient now?"

Sam chuckles. Dean works him open until he's rocking back onto three fingers. Loving the lust blossoming on Dean's face as much as the pressure in his ass, Sam's entire body thrums.

Dean sucks in a breath. "Dude, if I don't do this now, I don't know if I'm gonna make it."

"All right. Just take it easy."

Dean bites his lower lip as he aligns himself. He supports his weight with one hand and uses the other to hold his cock in place as the tip urges past the reluctant ring of muscle. "Oh, fuck."

Sam sinks his teeth into his own arm and tries not to sound how it feels. The pressure is so intense; the slow drag burns. Sam's toes curl. His body tenses despite repeating to himself, _ _'relax, relax, relax'.__

As Dean presses into him, the burning becomes pain. Now he knows, that was not nearly enough prep.

"You okay?"

Sam hums his consent, but his jaws remains clenched.

"You're so fucking tight," Dean gasps, his body trembling. "Sam, I'm sorry."

That is the only warning before Dean lapses into what can only be described as involuntary spasms. Both hands claw into Sam's hips as he plows his ass. It isn't like anything Sam has ever experienced before. He has fingered himself and used a dildo, gently, carefully.

It's nothing like this. This is Dean, alive and on fire for him. Full and burning, inside and out. There is a hint of future pleasure beneath the pain. He grips the sheets and bites back his cries. Dean drives in and out of him in utter, rhythmless abandon, grunting like a wild thing.

In a moment of mercy, Dean's cock slides over Sam's prostate, granting new perspective: it hurts like Heaven. Filthy curses and praise fall from his mouth like a damned saint. "Fuck me. Oh my fucking God. Dean. Oh my God. Fuck. Oh fuck, yes. Please."

"Sam." Dean gasps, muscles tightening already. He drops himself against Sam's back as he yelps and convulses.

Sam pushes up, lifting his own body along with the boy on his back so he can grab hold of his sputtering cock. In a few smooth strokes, he groans and releases onto the Prussian blue, satin sheets. He collapses into the wet spot with Dean still on his back and lodged within him.

They lay that way for a brief moment, catching their breaths until Sam gets the sneaky suspicion the kid has fallen asleep. He gives Dean's leg a little pat. Dean grunts a complaint, but arches his back to carefully remove himself with the condom in tact. He ties and discards it on the floor beside the bed.

Sam stands and wipes his hand in the top sheet. "Hop up."

Dean groans, but climbs to his feet so Sam can bunch up the fabric.

Sam grins. "You sound like a wounded puppy."

"Fuck you."

"Come here, puppy." Sam catches him in a headlock and then, tosses him onto his back on the mattress.

Dean squirms and wrestles against Sam who is probably twice his weight and half a foot taller. Dean's size is not necessarily a disadvantage, though and his body is slippery with sweat. He writhes away, rolling up and contracting himself in movements that are far from professional. Still, they serve the purpose of making him difficult to pin.

In the end, Sam's six years of actual wrestling experience allow him to capture Dean in a body scissor. Sam's legs locked around his middle and an arm, firmly around his neck. "You surrender?"

"Never." Dean bucks and strains until he's breathless.

He rests for a few seconds and tries to break the hold again. Sam grins and lets him wear himself out.

Finally, Dean acquiesces and tilts back his head, exposing his neck in concession. Sam laughs and slips down to pin the boy flat on his back. He lays still with both arms out to the side, secured in place by Sam's fists around his wrists. Sam's body weighs him down, even though he has stopped fighting. He tongues Dean's Adam's apple and hums at the delectable brackishness of his sweat. It's not all so different from his come. When Dean moans, the vibration tickles Sam's mouth.

Sam drops onto his back and sighs, more satiated than he's been in years. Dean tucks himself into his side, with one of his slim, well-muscled thighs curled up over Sam's middle. He runs a finger over the jagged, pink curve of indentations of teeth marks Sam left in his own forearm. "Did it hurt?"

"Just a little."

Dean leans up on his elbow, worry etched in his furrowed brow. "Why didn't you say something?"

Sam shrugs.

"I didn't want to fucking hurt you."

"I liked it." Sam wipes a hand over his forehead, trying to ease away the concern. It doesn't work, so he changes the subject by tracing the scar on Dean's chest. "What is this?"

"Birthmark."

Sam leans up to get a better look. "Doesn't your mom have the same one?"

Dean's brow raises. "Why the hell do you know that?"

"The day we met … she wasn't wearing much." Sam puts it as diplomatically as possible.

"Yeah." Dean concedes, as if he just remembers that detail.

"That's kind of strange, isn't it?" Sam pets the mark until Dean stays his hand.

"Hereditary birthmarks? It's a thing. Look it up."

"Hm." Sam folds his right arm back behind his head and idly runs his left fingers over the shell of Dean's ear. After a few minutes, he announces, "This movie is extremely stupid?"

"Hey, chill with the blasphemy. You missed most of it."

Sam snickers. "Yeah, I think I may be glad of that."

Dean squints up at him. "How old are you?

Sam laughs at the indictment, as if his age is what makes this movie stupid. "Twenty-seven."

Dean's solemn nod isn't an encouraging reaction.

"Creeped out now?"

"I'm old enough to know what I want," Dean replies, still so serious.

Sam sits up so he can get a good look at Dean's face. He wishes he could crack the boy open and see what's darkening the way he ticks. "When was your first time?"

Dean watches the screen. At first, Sam assumes he's gone too far, and that Dean won't answer.

"It depends on what you count. First chick, I was eleven. She was sixteen, by the way." Dean smirks.

Sam waits for Dean to turn the question on him.

"Since you got to know, first guy I was nine."

"Wow." Sam's more weirded out than impressed. He's not even sure he knew what sex was at nine. "How old was he?"

Dean shrugs. "Not a kid."

Sam covers his mouth with his hand. Dean's eyes remain focused on the TV. Not knowing what else to do, Sam strokes his arm. Dean tenses, like Sam kind of expected he would. "You want to talk about it?"

"Why, you getting paid by the hour? Nothing to talk about. It happened. It's over."

"Was it…" Sam's not even sure what he wants to ask. The words dissolve into the sour taste of bile.

"When having a girlfriend is not enough, you go after her kid."

"Does your mother know about it?"

"Who knows?"

Sam wipes the back of his neck. "How am I supposed to keep from feeling like I'm taking advantage of you?"

Dean shakes his head. "Number one, are you that asshole? No. Secondly, I fucking want you." Dean's smile is beautiful as always, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He punches Sam's chest, playfully. "Dude. Don't worry your pretty head so much."

"You know what I want to do?"

Dean looks at him, waiting for the answer.

"I want to find this guy and earn myself a few years in prison." The honesty of that statement startles Sam. It's not a thought he's ever had.

Dean's eyebrow raises. "You?"

Sam strokes his slightly trembling fingers down Dean's face. The thought that anyone would ever hurt him constricts Sam's throat. It's useless for Sam to wish he could have been there to protect Dean. That fact doesn't stop him from thinking it. He wipes the corner of his eye with his shoulder. His face stings. With a bit of effort, he controls his voice. "When's the last time you saw your dad?"

"What the fuck? You sure you aren't a shrink?" Dean narrows his eyes, clearly debating whether to answer. "How is that related?"

"Just a question." Sam keeps his eyes on the TV, hoping it will make Dean a little less edgy if he doesn't look directly at him.

"I don't talk about this shit, Sam."

Sam bites his bottom lip. He wants to press the point, but he knows, instinctively, how counterproductive that will be.

Dean sighs. "Last year. My team won our division. They had this big write up in the paper. He showed up outside of my school. I ran like hell. Hid in a dumpster. That what you wanted to know?"

"Your mom ever call the cops?" Sam considers laying his hand over Dean's, but he's afraid that it will just shut the boy down. He folds it with the other in his lap.

Dean shakes his head, eyes glued to the TV. He's shutting down. Sam can almost feel the agitation swelling beneath his skin. "Was this your first time topping?"

"Fuck you. What are you trying to do?" Dean jumps off the bed and starts to pull on his jeans. "No. Okay?"

Sam sidles to the edge of the bed and pulls him back, so that Dean is seated between his thighs. He smooths a hand down the boy's tense shoulder and rests the other on his belly. "I'm just trying to understand you. This was my first time ... catching." He smiles against Dean's neck. "It was amazing. You're amazing."

Sam hooks his chin on Dean's shoulder and holds his lips to Dean's throat, reveling in the sensation of his pulse. "And 18 is arbitrary."

Sam remembers being sixteen. He was often mistaken for older, because of his height. Psychologically, he was little more than a child. If some adult had tried to have sex with him, it would have been a crime. That person would have deserved to be locked up and have the key tossed into the ocean.

It makes him a little sad to think it, but Sam's not sure Dean was ever really a kid.

"When's the last time you talked to your mother?" Two can play this crackpot psychiatry game, and Dean's been wondering about this forever.

Sam gently pushes Dean to his feet. Then he stands and pulls on his boxer briefs. "It's been a while. My dad's party, I guess. It was about five years before that." He pulls a fresh sheet from the bench in the corner of the room.

Dean scoots up to the head of the bed. "That's insane. You know that, right?"

"She's the only reason I was there at all. She thought it would be some kind of warm, wonderful reunion." Sam scoffs and shakes the fabric loose before he tosses it over the bed.

Dean doesn't move, and it covers his head. Grinning like a little kid, he peels it down. "Maybe it could have been if you hadn't left after 5 minutes."

"You've seen how acts. He didn't want me there."

"Fuck him." Dean shrugs. "You should go see your mom. You would kick yourself if something happened to her and you hadn't, you know, patched up whatever went wrong between you two."

"Nothing went wrong between us. She's just respecting my dad's wishes." Sam leaves the room.

Dean hops up and follows him into the living room. "What's the deal, Sam? People don't lose it like your dad did for no reason."

"I don't know. I sincerely don't." Sam turns his back, running his fingers over books on his shelf.

There's no way he wants to read right now. Dean puts an arm around Sam's waist and rests his chin on his back. "Hey. Come on, Dr. Phil. You can dish it; you can take it. "

Sam turns and squints down at Dean for a moment. He clamps his eyes tight. For just a moment, he sways on his feet, like the Eiffel Tower ready to topple.

"Whoa. Dude. You okay?" Dean braces himself and prepares to hold Sam's weight, as well.

Sam nods and plops on the sofa. Dean settles beside him and pulls a tuft of his chest hair. Sam clamps down on his hand. "Ow."

"You like it."

"I don't like it." Sam takes a deep breath.

Dean smirks. "You like it."

"You know what I like? The way you smell." He nuzzles Dean's cheek before he licks a broad, sloppy stripe.

Dean wipes the away trail of the spit and turns up his nose at his hand like he's been slobbered by a St. Bernard. "Never do that shit again."

Sam cracks up laughing. "The look on your face."

"Seriously. That's disgusting."

"Come here." Sam pulls on Dean until he's straddling his lap and stands.

"Put me down, Sam." Dean struggles, squirming to get Sam to drop him. "I'm serious. I do not fucking like this."

He is still complaining when Sam presses him up against the wall, alternating between nibbling and slurping any body part he can reach.

Dean beats on his shoulders. "Sam. I mean it. Knock it off."

Sam grins like a Cheshire cat, drops him to his feet, takes a few steps back. He slumps against the wall, spins, and slides to his ass on the floor. He laughs for a few seconds before his head falls forward. "I have to pee."

"What the hell?" Dean stares and waits for this to make sense.

"I'm going to pee on myself." Sam giggles.

Dean curls up his nose. "Then, go to the bathroom, Sam."

"Can't. Can't move."

"You can move. Just get up." Cautiously, Deans lifts his arm. When he lets go, it falls like dead weight to the floor.

"I can't. I can't." Sam whimpers like a stubborn child.

"Dude, what the hell…"

"Sugar. I told you." Sam sobs or laughs.

Dean can't tell what the sound is that Sam is making. "What, are you three? That was like an hour ago?"

Sam sags back against the wall before his eyes flutter shut.

Dean chuckles to himself. "No fucking way."

Sometime before dawn, Sam wakes up on the living room floor and thinks, _'_ _ _This can't be good.'__

Dean is leaned up against him with an arm draped around his middle. Sam wipes the dried spittle from the corner of his mouth and runs a finger down Dean's arm. The kid just groans.

"Hey," Sam whispers.

Dean moans, "What?"

"If I don't take you home now, it's not going to happen."

As it is, the idea of driving Dean home is unappealing. The idea of getting up and into the bed is not much better. Sam feels like he's been on the business side of a battering ram.

Dean mumbles against his chest, completely incoherent. Sam grins. He pushes back against the wall, swoops Dean up into a princess carry and stands. It works like magic.

"No. Absolutely not." Dean hops down out of his arms, lands on his feet and stretches out his neck and shoulders.

He batters his eyelids a few times before picking his wedgie and heading back into the bedroom. Sam just shakes his head and huffs.

Dean settles back against the pillow with the remote control. "Star Trek. Nice."

"You want to watch __another__ movie?" Sam eases in beside him.

"What? You don't?"

Sam checks his phone. "It's 4 o'clock in the morning, Dean."

"Yeah, but tomorrow is Saturday. Or today is. Anyway, we can sleep until noon, get up, fuck, and then, go back to sleep."

Sam is speechless and surprised with how on board he is with that plan.

Dean lays the remote on his own chest and stretches his arms behind his head. "Mmmm. Man, do you have any idea what I would do to Chris Pine?"

Sam shrugs. He has no idea who that is. Dean reaches over and plucks Sam's nipple until it buds into a stiff nub. He closes his eyes and lets the surge lick at his spine.

"Did you know that there's a whole mess of gadgets and stuff that only exist because of Gene Roddenberry?"

Sam didn't know that, because he has never heard of Gene Roddenberry.

"Hey, what inventions did they not have in your day?"

"Dean, you act like I'm a hundred years older than you." Sam ruffles the boy's hair, unsure if he means the question seriously or whether he's just trying to get under Sam's skin.

"Yeah, but like, did they have internet and cell phones and what not?"

"Are you seriously asking me that? Yeah. Sheesh." Sam laughs a little to himself. "But you know what my mother used to do? She used to make us commit the important ones to memory. She always said in case of some emergency, it should be saved in our brain and not in just in our phones."

Dean screws up his eyes, considering it. "That's crazy. What's going to happen to your phone?"

"I know. But I still do it. I've actually, already learned yours by heart." Sam scratches the back of his neck.

"Seriously?"

"That's how you know I like you." Sam pinches his cheek.

Dean jerks away and makes the most lovable annoyed face. Sam does it again just for the reaction. Dean flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling. "I guess I would learn Jody's but we never keep ours. New town, new phone. She says it keeps my dad from tracking us."

"Is he in the CIA or something?"

Dean shakes his head. "Just a crazy shit head."

They lay there perfectly still with shouts and explosions blaring in the background. Thinking the kid must have fallen asleep, Sam runs a fingertip down his sternum.

Dean whispers, "Hey. Can I see your guy?"

Sam's hand freezes. "Please don't call him that."

"Fine. Your 'ex.' Do you have a picture or something?"

"Why?"

"Just curious."

Sam shakes his head, exhaling loudly. He hates everything about it. "You want me to get up, right now and find a picture of him?"

"Don't you have one in your phone or something?"

Sam glances at his phone where it lays, harmless until now, on the nightstand. He probably does have a picture, but he does not want to be talking about Castiel, let alone looking for photos of him to share with his new … whatever Dean is. "Seriously, Dean?"

"Yeah."

Sam huffs. "If it's that important to you, you can look through and see if you find one." He hands him the phone and holds his breath.

It takes about a minute for Dean to find a selfie Castiel had taken in a pair of leather booty shorts and a hot pink tank top. His ass is the feature, but he peers back at the camera over his shoulder. Dean's brow raises, clearly impressed. "Pretty."

Sam clears his throat and curls up his lip, feeling utterly sick to his stomach.

"Is he…"

"I don't want to talk about him, Dean."

Dean studies the photo for a second longer before Sam reclaims his phone.

"Then, what do you want to talk about?"

"Something else." Sam deletes the photo, drops the phone into the table drawer and shuts it, for good measure.

"Fine." Dean folds his hands behind his head, nearly poking Sam in the eye with his elbow. "You think your dad's pissed you like guys?"

Apparently, conversation isn't a good idea. Sam sits up on the edge of the bed with his back to this kid. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to send Dean home. "He doesn't know."

"So, is there something else wrong with you that I should know about?"

Sam winces, thinking of calling a cab. "Dean, maybe we shouldn't talk anymore."

Dean crawls up behind him, wrapping his legs around his waist. "Okay. Sensitive. Then, why don't you tell me what you thought of the game?"

"I already told you what I thought of the game." Sam closes his eyes, trying to cool his roiling emotions.

Dean plucks his ear. His hands glide over Sam's pecs. "I want to hear it again."

"I think, that you are, without question, the best young quarterback I've ever seen. Better than me. Way better than I was at your age. But that wouldn't take much, because I wasn't actually that great. I was good, but …"

"I don't want to hear about you. I want to hear about me."

Sam laughs out loud and spins to tackle Dean onto his back again. He fights, but Sam pulls his arms above his head without much effort. The boy could use a shower. Sam pins his wrists together with one hand and tickles his ribs until he is a beautiful, twisting, breathless mess.

"Fuck you. That's not fair, you fucking caveman." Dean tries to sit up, muscles in his stomach cording tightly beneath Sam's hand.

Sam draws back to get a good look at him. Dean stills beneath his gaze and looks mildly concerned when he asks, "What?"

' _ _There is no way this ends well for me.'__

Sam smiles and gives his nose a soft peck before he says, "Nothing."


	17. Chapter 17

**SATURDAY**

Dean's plan had been to wake Sam up with a stiff dick down his throat. The guy is already gone by the time Dean rolls over in his insanely comfortable bed.

Dean had never slept so well in his life; it had to be the mattress. He rarely falls off the coach, but he usually has a few sleepless hours in the middle of the night. Not here. Seriously, this mattress feels like it's filled with clouds or something.

He's unwilling to entertain the idea that it has something to do with Sam, other than the body heat, maybe.

Sam is showered, dressed and in the kitchen rooting around in the fridge. He turns his nose up, holds up a hand and won't even let Dean come close to him until he's had a shower, too. "I mean it. Go, wash. You smell like a kangaroo."

A quick shower winds up taking half an hour. The water pressure is out of this world. Just when Dean thought nothing could be more luxurious than that bed...

Once his skin is all pruny, Dean puts back on his jeans and one of Sam's t-shirts, which only looks slightly stupid hanging off his shoulders. He returns to the kitchen with a fluffy, snow-white, lavender smelling towel wrapped around his head. Sam hovers over a silver bowl surrounded by ingredients. He is definitely his mother's son.

He also finds Sam's landline phone wrapped in its cables on top of the trashcan. Dean holds it up, the question in his eyes before he asks, "Kaput?"

Sam takes it from him, steps on the pedal so he can drop it into the can. "I'm getting that line shut off. I'm, also, probably, going to wind up getting a new cell phone. I'll let you know the number when I do."

"Okay." Dean doesn't ask the series of questions that could follow.

"Bigger fish: I have one egg." Sam holds it up to show Dean.

"Congratulations?"

"That's not going to cut it. One egg and no coconut oil. We're going to have to go shopping." Sam unties the apron from around his waist.

"Dude, I don't have to have…"

Sam cuts him off. "I want to make you pancakes. I _will_ make you pancakes."

"Okay." Dean stops arguing since it's clearly a matter of honor.

If Sam only knew, he usually has potato chips and a beer for breakfast. He can't even remember the last time he had an egg that wasn't shaped like a hockey puck.

Sam pokes him with the spatula. "You're a growing boy. I want to fatten you up.

"You want to fatten me up? That's what you like?" Dean pokes out his abs, so he looks like he's about five months pregnant.

"Not too fat. Just … I want to feed you. Put your shoes on and stop talking back."

How're you going to say no a guy who wants to feed you?

"Yes, sir."

Dean ignores the phone buzzing in his pocket, so Sam does the same. He can't help but grin and shake his head when the kid peels his sleeve up over his shoulder. Dean flexes beside a glossy cover featuring a cute guy Sam has never heard of or seen before. He pokes out his lips like a duck and asks, "Me or Chris Pratt?"

Sam smiles. "You. Every time."

"That's what I thought." He kisses his own bicep and tosses the magazine on top of the groceries.

Dean obviously has opinions about Chris Pratt, because his nose is shoved so far into the pages of that rag that Sam has to grab the back of his shirt to keep him from stepping out into traffic.

Dean gapes over at Sam like he had forgotten that he was there. He rolls up the magazine and stuffs it down into the canvas bag of groceries. His arm slides around Sam's waist. He hooks a thumb into one of his belt loops and starts to hum.

Sam tenses at the unexpected contact. He searches left and right for spectators before he slings his arm over Dean's shoulder. Since Sam is sure no one is watching, he's even so bold as to kiss Dean's temple.

The kid chuckles as they cross the street.

Dean has eaten in Waffle Houses and IHOPs and other fine establishments around this great nation. What he's been calling pancakes all his life might as well be cow patties.

Sam's pancakes are not even real. They're too light and fluffy to be real. And it's not Aunt Jemima syrup slathered on them either. Sam cooks actual fucking berries for him and makes some kind of warm jelly stuff that would make Mary Winchester proud. Then he tops it all with whipped cream. Not that spray out of a can, non-dairy crap that Dean had been addicted to as a little kid. This is real grass-fed cream that Dean watched Sam put into a blender and whip until it was all stiff and scrumptious.

Of course, Sam doesn't have any of it, because there are about three things that Sam will eat. Dean sure as shit eats every bite on his plate and goes back for thirds. Sam just stands there with what looks like a swamp water smoothie, smiling while he watches Dean stuff his face.

When he's done, Sam clears the table. Dean eases up behind him at the sink. He rests his face on Sam's shoulder and rubs his hand over his chest. Whoever knew somebody could be so sexy washing dishes? "How can I ever repay you?"

Sam tries to slide away. Dean holds him tight and burrows his nose in that warm spot between the shoulder blades. He takes two fists full of rock-hard pecs.

Sam pats his hands and tries, again, to get free. Finally, he takes Dean's wrist and leads him over to the sofa. He perches all the way over on the opposite arm rest, like a gigantic bird.

"What?" Dean eyes him, suspicious.

This has the distinct feel of a sit-down.

Sam wrings his hands, anxiously, between his own knees. "I just want you to know that's not the only reason you're here."

"I'm totally fine with it, if it is." Dean nestles his socked foot in Sam's crotch.

"It's not, though." His face is firm with sincerity.

Dean smirks. "You keep talking. I want to see if I can get you off like this."

"Dean." Sam catches his foot, peels off the sock and wiggles his fingers a few inches from his sole.

"Dude." Dean tries to yank back his foot, but Sam has his ankle in a vice grip.

"Yes?" Sam grins and raises Dean's leg.

He nuzzles Dean's instep. Then, he licks it.

Dean narrows his eyes. "You're kind of a freak, you know that?"

One of Sam's eyebrows lifts. "Do you like it?"

Dean's not sure, so he doesn't answer. He watches Sam suck his big toe into his mouth. Dean's mouth falls open, but there is nothing he can say. It's actually way hotter than something so gross has a right to be.

Those huge paws of Sam's graze up his calves, under his knees until he's working Dean's thigh muscles. And damn, that's amazing, too. Sam grabs hold of Dean's arm and trades his toe for his thumb, cheeks hollowing like he's getting paid to do it. Dean's jaw goes slack. "Fuck, Sam."

The way Sam looks at him, with his eyes all dark and dangerous, Dean just knows he is about to get pounded. Sam flicks open the button to Dean's jeans and pulls his zipper down. He drags the pants all the way off and tosses them over the back of the sofa.

Sam opens his own fly and draws out that monster.

"Shit." Dean swallows, mesmerized by the sight of Sam's managing his enormous dick.

Sam may as well be penetrating him already with his intense, unblinking stare. Dean pants like a hungry little slut, because, well, damn. Sam is a thing of beauty. His manhood is awe-inspiring, and Dean is in fucking awe.

Taking a dick is easy. There is, literally, nothing to it but to lay there and take it. On the other hand, enjoying getting fucked is 70% psychological. Dean knows if he's going to take that thing and not feel like he's getting split in half, he is going to have to chill the fuck out.

He takes a deep breath. By the time he's breathing out again, Sam has swallowed his entire dick.

"Ho…" Dean's head jerks up from the sofa.

Sam reaches up and pushes him back, encouraging him to relax. Dean moans and rests his hands on Sam's neck. Sam remains completely still for a moment, waiting for Dean move before he slides all the way off, tongue dragging against the underside. Sam hums a vibration through Dean's shaft and right up his spine. "Ah. Fuck. Do that again."

He does it over and over until Dean feels like he's got low-level electricity coursing through his veins.

Sam's tongue circles round the tip of his dick before he slowly engulfs the whole thing again. Lips pressed to Dean's pubes, he swallows a few times in succession.

Dean tucks his chin to his chest, mouth contorted, legs trembling. "That's so fucking good."

Sam works him smooth and sweet and makes the pressure build so dizzyingly slow that Dean starts to keel over. Without changing his rhythm, Sam catches him and pushes him back onto the sofa.

Sam peeks up between strands of his hair. Dean wipes them out of his face and takes a firm handful. Sam moans on his dick causing a flare to burst in the center of Dean's chest. "Yeah, Sam. Fucking look at me… God, you're so … your fucking mouth."

There's no train of thought to continue. Only gibberish and hitched breath as his hips rise from the sofa, chasing the warmth. Sam's hands slide around and grip his ass. They drag Dean even closer, the fingers of one hand sliding between his crack. Before his mind can react to that, Dean's stomach tightens. His balls contract and he shoots down Sam's throat, both hands curled tight in his hair. "God, Sam."

Sam leans back against the arm of the sofa, watching him come down. When the blood has finally returned to his brain, Dean reaches out to return the favor. Sam takes his hand and kisses it before he flashes a smile. "I should get some work done."

If Dean wasn't so well-fed and utterly sucked-out, he'd worry that he's messed up somehow. As it is, he just lays there, basking like a lizard on the leather until his damp ass sticks to it.

Sam stuffs in his earbuds. Debussy.

He looks at the numbers, crunches a few. He valiantly pretends to work for a solid hour before he sighs, shakes his head and places his glasses on top of the file.

For a while, he just hovers at the door to the living room. Dean has removed every stitch of clothing and is laid out on the sofa reading Dante - no doubt plucked from Sam's shelf. He doesn't raise his eyes to ask, "You done?"

"I don't think I'm going to be able to to get much accomplished." Sam's eyes rove over the long line of Dean's pale body on his black leather couch.

Sam wants to paint him, fuck him and then, paint him again. This boy is a near painful kind of beauty.

Dean rests the book on his chest and asks earnestly, "Am I bothering you?"

Sam huffs softly, voice catching in his throat. "No. I, just … don't want to work while you're here."

Dean's smile is like a reward for wise decision making. "So, what do you want to do?"

Sam pats him on the back. "Come on. Three more."

"Dude. You just said one more." Dean huffs and completes another squat with a pair of 50 lbs. dumbbells hugged across his chest.

"Yeah. And three more after that."

"Fucker." He finishes his reps and lets the weights clang heavily to the floor. "You trying to fucking kill me?"

"I'm trying to toughen you up, little jerk." Sam slaps his chest.

"I'm going to toughen _you_ up, bitch." Dean pushes him down onto the workout bench and pins him there with his hands on Sam's knees.

Smirking, Dean pulls Sam's shirt up over his head. "Think it's time to climb bareback mountain."

"That's so bad." Sam shakes his hair to make it fall back into place, but he only winds up making himself look wilder.

Dean takes two fistfuls and yanks Sam's head back. He clamps onto his throat and sucks like he's going for blood.

"Jesus." Sam's hands clasp onto Dean's back.

Dean twists out of his grip to tug off his own sweaty shirt. He drops his boxers to the floor before stepping out of them. Licking his lips, he curls them into a dirty half-smile.

Sam buries his face in his hands. "Okay. I'm sorry. This is too much like a porno."

Dean tucks one knee between Sam's open legs to crawl onto the bench. "So?"

"I can't." Sam stands and drags Dean by the hand into his bedroom.

Dean doesn't resist, but on the way, he chuckles. "Oh, now, you're a fucking Puritan all of a sudden?"

Sam sits at the edge of the bed and helps himself to a palmful of Dean's dick. "Okay. So, you were saying?"

Dean uses the fingers coiled in Sam's hair to drag his face into his crotch. Sam moans and burrows his nose into Dean's pubes.

"You like that?" Dean strokes back the soft strands to get a clear view of Sam's face- his mouth parted, eyes closed like a man in prayer.

"Mmhm."

"Show me. How much do you like it?"

Sam nuzzles against Dean's wood. Then he licks, hazel eyes searching up for approval. Dean pats his cheek lightly. "That's good. Get on your back."

He does as he's told, but props up on his elbows. Dean falls to his knees and takes that ten-inch miracle in both hands. "This thing is a fucking masterpiece, man."

Sam's breath hitches. "I can't exactly take credit."

"I'll have to remember to tell the coach he sired a beast." Dean grins and starts him off with a lick to the tip.

Sam's head falls back like it's about to topple off his shoulders.

Dean wets the corners of his mouth to keep them from cracking as he takes Sam as far as he can without choking. It's no small task. It feels like his jaw is going to come unhinged. He barely manages half of it, but he lets spit slide down into his palm, twisting his wrist to give Sam friction and pressure on the whole shaft.

Dean pulls all the way off and takes a second. He fucking hates to gag - can't understand how Sam loves it so much. But he can make it good without that. With the base of The Beast in his fist, Dean hollows his cheeks and bobs up and down. His mouth makes a filthy squelching sound that gets his own dick hard.

Through all of this, Sam is perfectly quiet, stone still except for his thighs quaking against Dean's ribs.

Even with Dean controlling the pace and depth, he goes a little too far. Sam's tip brushes the back of his throat. He gasps and pulls off, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He tries not to let on how close he is to throwing up and takes a few breaths to collect himself.

Sam reaches down for his arms. "Hey. Come here and kiss me."

Dean's still not ready for that, but he needs a break. He crawls all the way up Sam's body. A huge hand cups the back of his neck, tries to urge him close. Dean resists and Sam releases him with a smile. He whispers, "You're incredible. You know that?"

Dean doesn't feel fucking incredible. He buries his face in Sam's pillow, concentrating on the guy's heart pumping against his chest.

Sam's hand passes gently up and down his back. "Dean. Do you actually like this?"

Dean leans up and squints, trying to figure out what Sam is asking.

"I mean, being with guys."

"I came on to you. Remember that?"

Sam nods, not looking very convinced.

Dean would never say so, but there are a lot of things about sex with guys that he likes more than with chicks. Guys are ready to go with little to no foreplay. With guys, you don't have to worry about getting too rough and knocking their heads against a wall. Then, there's the whole taboo side of it. Being with guys is like giving a honking middle finger to the rest of society.

Girls are soft and nice; Dean definitely likes chicks. But nothing gets his blood going like a big, strong, red-blooded, American male. His taste in men is remarkably similar to his mother's with one exception; Dean prefers potentially dangerous guys who, maybe, could kick his ass, but who never would.

Sam is perfect. Dean peers down into infinitely patient, constantly changing hazel eyes. "Yeah. I like it."

Fucking guys is awesome, as long as Dean can control the situation - which he usually can, even from the bottom. The fact that Sam wants him to top… Yeah. Perfection.

This whole little soul-searching moment is a dick shriveler, though.

Sam strokes his back. "Should we get up?"

Dean takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "I'm not done with you." He slides back down to the floor, on his knees.

This time, Dean pushes Sam's legs back over his shoulders. He's surprisingly limber for such a large guy. Dean lowers his head and gulps in one of his balls while stroking his dick slow and easy, the way Sam likes. With his other hand, he stretches up and pinches Sam's nipple.

He jolts. "Whoa."

"You like it?" Dean raises his head to check Sam's expression.

"Yeah. Just … not so hard."

Dean lets one of Sam's legs down, so his foot rests on the mattress, knee bent up toward the ceiling. He smooths his hand over the dense patch of welts over the back of Sam's other thigh. "Are you ever going to tell me about this?"

"Not now."

Fair enough.

Dean tilts his head to take a long look at Sam's tightly puckered, pink asshole. He licks his lips. "I've never done this. You have to let me know if it sucks."

He slides a palm over the swirl of soft, dark fur and dives in, face-first. Carefully, he flicks his tongue over the hole. Sam's hips shift. He sucks in a quick breath. "Fuck, no, that does not suck."

Dean's head pops up. "You just cussed."

"Yeah." Sam's palm covers the back of Dean's head. He gently, but firmly sets him back to work.

It's nothing like licking a girl - none of that slime and stuff. Thi entrance is resistant instead of open and inviting. There's definitely an odor, but it's more earth than ocean. One thing that's exactly the same - Dean is getting high on the way Sam whimpers and shakes. He smiles into his mission, wrapping both arms around Sam's thighs.

He licks from top to bottom, nudging his nose up between Sam's balls. Yeah, there's definitely a warm Sam smell that no amount of douching could wash away. Dean breathes it in and leans back to see how wet he's gotten everything. He rubs his palm over Sam's soft, damp fur.

Sam has got a fistful of sheet and the other arm over his face. Dean smiles and nips his ass. He flicks his tongue back and forth over Sam's hole, just like he would a girl's clit. Sam's thighs tighten and threaten to crush Dean's head. "Good?"

"Mmhm."

So, Dean does that some more until Sam is shaking, just like a girl. Then, he stiffens his tongue and slides it slowly past the reluctant ring of muscle. Sam groans. Dean palms his cheeks and pulls them apart so he can curl the tip of his tongue and lick the surprisingly soft inside of him. It's a strange sensation - like the asshole wants him in and out at the same time. His range of motion is definitely limited, but he flickers the tip as much as he can. Then he moves his head back and forth, tongue fucking Sam until his own dick demands attention.

"Oh, my fucking God, Dean."

"Dude. Stop it. You're going to go to hell." Dean presses his thumb to Sam's wet hole then pulls away. "You should see this. You're totally twitching."

"Yeah. I can feel it."

"It's hot."

Sam tucks his arms under his legs and pulls his knees up to his ears.

Dean sucks in a loud breath at the display. "Ready for me to be a pain your ass?"

"Funny." Sam gasps.

"I'm seriously going to fuck you so hard." Dean spreads lube over his own dick, shuddering slightly at the relief of touching himself.

"Then, stop talking about it," Sam pants like he's been in a marathon. The sheets are already dark with his sweat.

Dean slips in his middle finger, chanting the instructions to himself. He twists his hand, palm to the ceiling, curls his finger and searches for Sam's prostate.

Just when he's about to give up, Sam's entire body jerks. He yelps and looks like he's levitating, the way his body comes up off the bed. The only thing touching the mattress are his heels and his head. "What the fuck have you been watching?"

"Not watching. Reading. Is it good?" Dean dips the tip of his thumb into him again.

"Hell, yeah, it's good."

"Then, it doesn't matter." He brushes over Sam's nub again just for the reaction. "Cosmo."

Sam starts to smile just before his face twists. "Shit."

"Should I do it again?"

"Yeah."

Dean smiles when he gets the same spectacular result. "I could do this all day."

"You would wear me out." Sam squeezes the base of his shaft and exhales loudly.

Dean grabs his shining dick like it's Excaliber and tucks himself between Sam's wide open thighs. "You ready?"

Sam nods and blinks up at him. His hand rises to brush down Dean's face. "God, you're so beautiful."

Dean ignores the uncomfortable twinge of heat in his chest at the comment and nips Sam's finger before he begins to ease into him. Sam lets out a long, low moan. Dean pauses to let a shudder pass through his body.

"Are you…" He wipes a tear from Sam's cheek with his clean hand. "You good?"

"Yes," Sam answers breathlessly and runs his hands down Dean's back. "Yes. I'm good. Please, don't stop."

Dean burrows his face in the crook of Sam's shoulder and presses in, slowly. His body trembles again with the effort of restraining himself.

Sam murmurs, "You don't have to be gentle."

"I know." Once he's all the way inside of Sam, Dean forces himself to be still, anyway. "You're so hot. So tight."

"Dean."

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam chuckles quietly, and Dean pulls those magnificent, mile-long legs up around his waist. Sam's ankles lock at the small of his back.

"I'm going to fuck you now." He gives one sharp snap of his hips before he starts to pound Sam's ass like a fucking maniac.

The room tilts.

The planet shifts.

Dean has a vision of himself cracking Sam in half so that he can creep in and burrow himself someplace in the center of him where he would never have to leave again.

Sam clutches onto his arms. "Oh, God. Dean. Fuuuuck."

"So good. So fucking good." Dean can't stand it. He hates it. Hates how much he loves being inside of him. How much he wants Sam. How much he wants Sam to love him and no one else on earth.

 _'Jody's right. I'm really losing it. I've lost it.'_

He crushes his hand over Sam's face and grinds it sideways into the pillow. Punishment for being perfect.

"Holy fucking God." Sam cries out, tenses and releases his load all over his own chest.

It's only a few seconds before Dean explodes inside of Sam, crying out like a little girl. It's too good. Too intense. He grits his teeth, tries to clamp down on the swell of pleasure and not come quite so hard. He doesn't have any control over this thing anymore. His body collapses beside Sam, shaking like a crack fiend.

Sam smooths his hand down Dean's side, mumbling, "So good."

Dean lays there, feeling violated and defenseless, like he is the one who just got fucked.

 _'I am. I'm fucked.'_

There isn't even anything he can do about it.

 _'Sam owns me, and he fucking knows it. He has to know.'_

A smile spreads across Sam's face, as if he's heard Dean's thoughts. "I didn't take you as the Cosmo type."

"You're welcome." Dean punches him in the ribs and rolls onto his back, still catching his breath. "I didn't read the whole fucking thing. Just the Things You Haven't Tried article and Taylor Swift. That girl is hot as shit."

"Meh." Sam hands him the box of tissues from his night table.

Dean takes a few and deposits the condom in them. "Are you kidding me?"

"She doesn't do anything for me?"

"Does any chick?"

Sam takes the messy tissues from his hands and adds the trash to his own. "I think I could be great friends with Jen Aniston."

"Shut up." Dean yawns, holds out his hand and Sam gives him the remote control.

Sam laughs all the way to the bathroom. He shakes his head, giddy and slightly embarrassed by his flushed and grinning face in the mirror.

By the time Sam gets back, Dean is flipping through the channels. He sits at the foot of the bed with a hand on Dean's ankle. "So, what made you seek outside help? Not that I'm complaining. I definitely appreciate that you did research for me."

Dean lands on a nature documentary and rests the remote on his stomach. "You give the best head I've ever had. Just wanted to return the favor."

"Well, thank you." Sam snickers. "Next time, check out Loverboy. For our people, by our people."

"Yeah. Your mom doesn't get that one, so…"

Sam laughs and squeezes his foot. Dean pulls away. He rests one ankle over the other, Sam's fingers drum on the mattress. He walks them toward Dean's leg like a spider. Dean gives them a light kick, just like he would a real bug. "You probably don't have any experience with this, but most girls are pitiful at it."

Sam catches his foot again. "I do, actually."

Dean mutes the TV. "You do?"

"Yeah." Sam smiles over his shoulder at Dean's burning curiosity. "I was married to a girl."

"Stop the fucking presses." Dean turns the television all the way off and sits upright. "No shit."

Sam continues. "We were together for a year before that. Like you said, atrocious head. A for effort, though."

"Wow." Dean processes that for a full five minutes before he asks, "So, where is she now?"

Sam shrugs. "Probably, hopefully, married to some straight guy."

"Huh. What's her name?"

Sam moves around to the side of the bed and lays down. "Ruby. Salins-Winchester, last time I saw her."

Dean watches Sam's face. "Did you actually like her?"

One of Sam's fingers traces over Dean's lower lip. "Very much. I loved her. I just didn't 'like like' her."

"Wow." Dean lays back, blinking at the wall.

Sam snickers and tugs on his earlobe. "Yeah. Now, you know that."

"You got any pictures?"

Sam laughs uncomfortably "What is with you and the pictures?"

Dean plucks at the trail of hair in the center of Sam's chest. "Just a thing."

It's weird. It isn't something Dean has ever asked anyone before. He just wants to know, needs to see who has had Sam before him. Dean would die before he admits it out loud, but he wants to be sure that he's hotter.

"So, would you like a photograph of every person I've ever been attracted to? Or just the ones I've slept with?"

"Whatever, dude." Dean huffs and flops onto his back.

He picks his buzzing phone up from the table on his side. It's just Jody again. He silences it. _'Screw her.'_

"You don't have any hotdogs?" Dean stands with the refrigerator door wide open, wearing only his ratty, smelly, checkered boxers. "Isn't that, like, a staple?"

 _'Pink slime and nitrates?'_ Sam winces and answers, "No. On both counts."

"Hm. That's going to make it more difficult." He pulls an artichoke from the produce bin and holds it out. "What the hell is this?"

Sam takes it from his hand, puts it back and closes the door. "That's an artichoke and I'm going to call for Thai."

"Tie?"

Sam can actually see the spelling in Dean's mind. "It's … Asian food?"

"I like Asian." Dean's eyebrows flicker up. His smirk is lewd enough for Sam to catch the innuendo.

"Okay." Sam heads back to the bedroom to find his phone.

"Unless they have some hottie delivering, don't bother. I said I'm cooking, I'm cooking." Dean's nose is back in the fridge.

Sam stops at the sofa, turns and pours all of his misgivings into his expression.

"I don't know what's up with that bitch face. You put on some of that elevator music, put your big ass feet up and get prepared to have your mind blown."

Sam cues up Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and grins when Dean starts humming and dancing along like it's a rock song.

The smell of sauteeing onion hit him and it requires an incredible amount of willpower to keep from spying on Dean.

To his credit, what he comes up with is edible. Considering that Dean has never seen tofu in his life, the stir fry is remarkably good. And if the rice is a little gummy, Sam doesn't say anything. Dean watches him take his first bite and waits for a reaction. Sam nods and hums his appreciation. "It's good. It's really good."

"Damn straight."

Sam smiles and subdues the desire to reach out for the hand not shoveling food into his mouth like an excavator.

"Seriously, what the hell is this shit?" Dean spears a piece of tofu on the end of his fork and examines it suspiciously. "Tofu. What is that?"

"Coagulated soy milk."

Dean frowns at it. "Remind me to stop asking?"

When they're done eating, Sam scrapes the remaining cubes from Dean's plate into the trash and washes the dishes. He dries his hands, hangs up the towel and wanders into the living to find Dean. He's sitting on the back of the sofa with his bare feet on the seat. He flips through Dante's Convivio as if it were a comic book.

Sam chuckles at the sight. "What do you want to do now?"

"You." He spreads his legs and palms his erection.

It's so far over the top. Sam should laugh instead of lick his lips and reel on his feet. "We have an appointment in a few hours."

"Appointment?" Dean's brow raises in question.

"Yeah." Sam grins. "It's a surprise."

"I don't really like surprises."

"Maybe you'll like this."

"Or maybe you'll just tell me what it is." Dean puts down the book and stalks toward him.

Sam stands his ground, but caves on part of it. "I want to have you measured."

"Measured?" He turns up his nose. "What? For like a cock cage or something?"

It's a good thing Sam isn't drinking. He would have probably choked and died. "No."

"It's a surprise. Fine." Dean tugs the hem of Sam's shirt out from his pants. "Few hours is good."

Dean had a guy try to put him on lock down once - teacher at his last school had called it a 'chastity device.' Dean had told him point blank he could shove the thing right up his own ass.

But for Sam, he'd think about it. The idea of Sam in a cage is hot as fuck.

Dean cups Sam's wood and watches those marble eyes grow dark. He can't decide whether he wants to bend him over the edge of the sofa or put him on his knees. "What do you want, Sam?"

"Whatever you want," he answers without hesitation.

A flash of heat surges through Dean. "Get on your knees."

Obedient and eager, Sam looks up like he's awaiting further instruction.

Dean strokes his hair. "Good boy."

Sam half smiles, half whimpers. His hand moves to his dick. Dean nudges it away with his foot.

"Get over by the sofa."

When Sam starts to stand, Dean stops him with a foot in the center of his back - not hard. He's not trying to hurt him. Just see how far he'll let Dean take this shit. "Crawl."

He crawls.

"You know what? Take these off." Dean lets him stand up long enough to undress him.

Then, he watches Sam crawl all the way over to the couch and rest his cheek on his arms. He arches his back, presenting himself like a cat in heat.

"Shit, Sam."

Dean stands there looking for a long time, just admiring the way Sam's nutsack hangs low. He moans softly, slowly humping into the leather. "Stop that," Dean commands.

Sam obeys. "Are you going to fuck me?"

"No."

Sam peeks up over his shoulder. "No?"

"You're gonna fuck yourself."

Sam cracks a little smile and raises his hand to his ass.

Dean nudges it away with his foot. "Not yet. When I fucking say so."

Sam exhales shakily and mumbles, "Yes, sir."

A flare goes off in Dean's chest and he chuckles. He's never been on the receiving end of that one. Now, he can see why guys like it so fucking much.

Dean reaches into his boxers and takes his dick into his fist. He jerks fast, and straddles Sam's back. If Dean shoots now, he'll get cum all in Sam's hair. He grins at the thought of that and saves it for later.

Groaning at the fresh wave of heat, he lowers himself behind Sam. He slides his dick between his wide open cheeks, spreading precome over his hole.

"Dean." Sam protests weakly.

Dean's mouth is wide open, skin on fire, head spinning. Forget all this domination shit. He needs to fuck Sam like he needs to breathe.

Sam's hand in his chest snaps him out of it, somewhat.

"Do you have any more condoms?"

Dean shakes his head.

"We can't." Sam strokes his face. "Let me..."

It takes a moment for Dean's vision to clear enough for him to nod and back away.

He sits on the floor, inches away from Sam. Legs wide, out to either side of where he's still leaned over the couch. Sam uses his left hand to hold himself open. The tip of Sam's long middle finger circles his rim.

"Yeah, Sam. That's good. Good boy."

Sam's hole resists for a second before it swallows the tip of that finger. "Is that your cum?"

"Yeah," Dean answers, breathless.

Sam moans and works his finger in and out.

"Shit." Dean bites his lower lip.

He covers Sam's left hand with his own. Stroking himself like he means fucking business, his left thumb massages that little sweet spot between Sam's sac and his asshole until he's rumbling and shaking like a 12-cylinder engine. "Oh, God, Dean."

Dean works Sam's sac for a while. Then, he smacks that ass for the sweet hiss he knows he'll get. Sam is writhing on his own finger. His back is covered in sweat. Dean beats himself so hard and fast, he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, face, stomach, ass clenched tight.

The second his pointer finger slips into that tight heat alongside Sam's, Dean crashes over the edge.

"Fuck." He comes all over Sam's soft white carpet.

Some of his slick lands on the back of Sam's leg. Dean leans forward, rests his cheek on the small of Sam's clammy back. "Holy shit. That was hot."

Sam reaches for his own dick. Dean reaches around and catches his wrist. "I don't want you to come yet."

Sam whines, but puts his arm back up on the couch. Dean runs both arms down Sam's flanks. "Sam, you are so fucking hot."

He scoffs, like he doesn't believe it. Dean rests himself on his back and they're instantly stuck together, as if by suction and not sweat. He hooks himself over Sam's shoulder and licks the salty drop from his chin. With his arms tight around Sam's chest, he grinds - limp but still so turned on it doesn't make sense.

When Dean finally stops moving, Sam asks, "Can I now?"

"No. And don't fucking ask again. I'll tell you when."

"Yes, sir," Sam murmurs into the black leather and shudders.

Dean smiles against his skin. He closes his eyes. Could fall asleep right here. "Dammit, Sam."

"You do know you're heavy, right?"

Dean is completely rapt by the ferocity or the blood, or both. He slowly bites into an apple while the leopard mauls and devours a monkey.

Sam watches Dean with the same intrigued silence. His eyes wander the entire length of the boy's body. They hover over the hand at rest on the remote control on his chest. He longs to touch, but not disturb. There isn't a way to do both. His fingers tap anxiously on the mattress. "Dean."

"Huh?" He doesn't look away from the TV.

Sam's mouth is dry. "I think ... we should, maybe, talk about what this is. I mean, if it's a 'booty call' that's fine. If it's, you know, something more than that, we should … "

Dean plucks Sam's limp cock. "Strictly carnal. Simpler that way."

Sam nods and bites his lip. It was the answer he'd expected, but not necessarily the one he would have given. "Have you ever been in love?"

Dean scoffs. "Is that even biologically possible for guys?"

Sam knocks the kid's hand away from playing with his foreskin. "Um, yeah. I was in love with Castiel for a while. Head over heels, no one else in the room, in love."

For a second, Dean's eyes burn with unmitigated hatred. Just as quickly, the expression is replaced by a mischievous smirk. "I bet he looks pretty good in heels."

"It could be because he was my first. I'm just saying, it does happen to men."

"Yeah, but you're gay. So, does that count? Aren't you guys, like, a third species?"

Sam's jaw actually drops. "That's not remotely offensive."

"I mean gender or whatever." Dean waves his hand, as if he could brush the comment out of the air.

Sam closes a hand around Dean's thigh. "And what are you? Exactly." He holds his breath for this answer.

Dean shrugs. "I'm not anything. If you got to have a label, I'm open-minded."

"That is very evolved of you." It's also an evasion, he's sure. Sam knocks the cocky kid onto his back and straddles his hips, watching his face for signs of discomfort.

"That's me. Top of the food chain." Dean folds his hands behind his head, ever strident.

Sam taps a finger over his heart, just below his strange, moon-shaped birthmark. "But you've never been in love?"

Dean clears his throat and bends his knees for Sam to lean back on. "I think I actually represent the next stage for humanity. Telekinesis and polygamy. You have to be really fucking advanced for this shit."

"Polygamy suggests marriage. I think you mean polyamory."

Dean shrugs. "Whatever."

Barely holding back laughter, Sam runs a hand down Dean's simpering face. "So, you can move things with your mind?"

"Probably."

Sam smiles and kisses the boy's forehead. He's too adorable and Sam adores him. "And you're entirely impervious to all manner of emotional attachment?"

"What, are you a dictionary, now?"

Sam pecks his cheek, nips his nose and sits upright again. His fingers curl over Dean's shoulders. It's not even his fault. He has never had his hands on anything so completely lovable. "Maybe we should get out of bed, go for a walk or something. I can't have a real conversation like this."

"Or you could stop talking and suck my dick."

By some miracle, they arrive 10 minutes early for their appointment. Charlie is with another customer. Sam crosses his legs as Val approaches with a tray of pastries. Dean takes two and holds his other hand over it. "No sugar for him."

Sam smiles. "No, thank you."

Dean hops up off his chair. Val swings her waist-length, bone-straight, black hair over her shoulders and stands beside Sam's chair. They both watch Dean touch every single item in the boutique that he can get his hands on.

"Anything to drink for your … companion?" Her brow lifts enough for Sam to know it's a loaded question.

"Water's fine. Or do you prefer juice?" Sam doesn't raise his voice, but Dean hears him.

He looks over his shoulder at the pretty Asian woman serving Sam. "I'll have what he's having."

"Just water, please," Sam requests.

She nods and retreats to fulfill the request. Dean leers at Val for a moment and goes on running his inquisitive hands down the bolts of fabric. "Did you ever see Kingsmen?"

Sam has absolutely no idea what that is. Knowing Dean, he assumes it's a TV show.

"Why, hello, my dear!" Charlie emerges from behind the curtain and greets Sam with the usual, exaggerated exuberance.

Sam abandons his drink so he can stand to meet her halfway.

The previous client, an older gentleman, is on his way toward the counter to confer with Val. He stops to appraise Dean as if he is on the shelf. The man takes a few steps in the boy's direction, gaze lowering to his ass. Dean doesn't even seem to notice. He disappears behind a row of bolts.

Sam bites the inside of his cheek, stomach knotting.

"Do you work here?" The man's voice grates on his nerves.

He doesn't hear Dean's reply, but the man smiles and takes another step forward.

Sam's chest burns, muscles tighten. "Dean."

The other man's head snaps around. He regards Sam and treats himself to another full scan of Dean's body before he walks over to Val at the counter.

Sam crosses the space to take Dean's side. Part of him wants to kiss the boy silly, right there in front of them all - to mark him, claim him. Instead, he places a light hand on the small of Dean's back and makes introductions. "Dean, this is Charlie Bradbury. Charlie, Dean."

"You want to cover this face?" She asks with a finger below Dean's chin.

Sam presses a silencing finger to his own grin. "Sh. He doesn't know."

"He also hates secrets." Dean adds and rolls his eyes.

"You have enough time, right?"

Charlie punches Sam's arm good-naturedly. "That's why you pay me the big bucks. Right this way, handsome. Let's get your measurements." She ushers Dean behind the curtain.

Sam has a sip of his water and cracks his book on his crossed legs.

The older man approaches and whispers, "Is he yours?"

Sam's jaw aches from how tightly he clenches his teeth. He thinks of shouting Yes and No, and of beating this asshole to a pulp. He forces a smile.

"For hire or...You'll excuse me. Just looks like a stray, doesn't he?" The man looks off in the direction Dean and Charlie had gone. "Anyway. He's lovely. Enjoy."

Even after the man has left the shop, Sam can't seem to unfurl his fists. He can practically feel Val's eyes on him, but he doesn't speak. Neither does she.

When they finally emerge from the back, Charlie places her hands on her hips. Her tape measure is draped over her shoulder. "Well, he's practically perfect in every way."

This is not news to Sam.

"So, do I get a lollipop?" Dean stretches his arms over his head displaying his smooth, pale stomach in a way that can't be accidental.

"You want to run the thing by him?" Charlie nods toward Sam.

"Oh, yeah." Dean looks up at Sam like a kid in a store about to beg for candy.

Sam shifts his stance, mildly uncomfortable.

"Charlie says I can have this shirt and a couple other ones, if I just take a few pictures. Fully clothed. Am I missing something?" Dean asks, rubbing his chin dramatically.

"I tried to tell Sam, most of my clients are wrinkly old men who appreciate … well … Do I really have to spell this out? Are you two not fucking?"

Dean's eyes pop. He shakes his head at Sam. "Dude. I didn't say anything."

Charlie punches Sam's arm. "The way you look at him?. Do you really think you're being inconspicuous?"

"You should have seen him nearly tear off Terry's head." Val chips in from her station.

"Who's Terry?" Dean asks, all altar boy innocence, when Sam knows he knows.

Sam's face feels like it's caught fire. He sputters, but isn't sure how to respond.

Dean comes to his rescue by pointing at Val. "Yeah, well, you two are fucking, too."

Charlie doesn't even look at her co-worker. She scoffs. "Damn straight. We been together 13 years. Bitch better put out."

Val flips them all the bird, or perhaps just her lover.

"So, are we doing this or what?"

Val sets up lights and a white backdrop while Charlie gets her camera ready.

Dean helps himself to what remains of Sam's water. "So, Charlie says she's been making your clothes for the past two years. Walmart not good enough for you?"

"I have never stepped foot inside a Walmart." Sam doesn't intend for the remark to be disparaging. He simply has no idea what one would find in the store.

Dean shakes his head and huffs. "That doesn't even surprise me."

"Between these and these … " Sam gestures vaguely, frowning at his own disproportionate shoulders, hips and legs. "I can't exactly grab something off the rack."

"Dude, you do know that you're …" Dean searches for a word and comes up with, "gorgeous, right?"

Sam huffs. He glances over, hoping the others haven't overheard. "New topic, please."

"Dude." Dean shakes his head. "The first time I saw you, I practically jizzed my pants."

"That's poetic." Sam squeezes his eyes shut, laughing nervously.

Dean drops to the floor between his knees. "Shall I compare you to a summer's day?"

"No. Please, don't." Sam tries to help him to his feet, face burning and no doubt blushing brightly.

He scowls at the entertained snickers Charlie and Val are making no attempt to hide.

"Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May

and summer's lease hath all too short a day..."

Sam hardly knows what to say. Dean is kneeling, holding his hand, reciting Shakespeare in front of the closest thing to a friend Sam has. The whole thing is surreal and ridiculous and he likes it a lot more than he probably should.

"I can do the whole thing, if you want."

"No. That's okay." He helps Dean to his feet.

"We had to memorize it at my last school," Dean explains. "Never actually thought it would be useful."

"All right, turtle doves." Charlie motions for them to take their places.

Sam hovers on the border of the backdrop while Dean hops in and puckers his luscious lips into what can only be described as a school girl pout.

Charlie snaps a few. "He's a natural, isn't he?"

Sam chuckles. "He's a ham."

"Maybe, but you telling me you wouldn't stock up on whatever he's selling?"

Dean has no shame about putting it on for the camera: he flexes, tries a thoughtful pose with his chin in his hand, runs a hand through his hair, spins, wiggles his ass and glances over his shoulder. The more Sam laughs, the more outlandish he becomes.

All the while, Charlie snaps away. "OK, Sam, you get in there and kiss him."

"What?"

"Not that kind of website. On the cheek. Believe me, my clientele will gobble it up."

Dean tugs him by the hand, tucks himself under Sam's arm and turns up his cheek. Sam knows his own must be beet-red by now. The boy taps his face and chirps, "Come on. Lay it on me."

Sam couldn't deny him if he wanted to.

"You want to go get some ice cream or something?" Sam asks as he starts the car.

Dean finishes his wide armed, mouth gaping yawn before he asks, "What is with you feeding me ice cream? Is that, like, a fetish of yours?"

"No. I don't know." Sam shrugs and clears his throat. "I just thought you liked it."

"It's kind of creepy, man. Got this 'come here, little boy' vibe to it."

Sam winces and shakes his head. "Don't."

"I'm fucking with you." Dean smacks his arm and smiles. "Dude. You gotta lighten up. Look. I'm younger than you. I'm always gonna be. That's just how it is. Some people are… you know. They're not going to understand that."

Sam nods, the word 'always' on repeat in his mind. "Yeah. I know."

"Fuck 'em," Dean says and sits quiet for a moment, apparently ruminating on that great nugget of universal truth.

Sam breathes heavily, trying to find some of that devil-may-care attitude Dean seems to have in spades.

"What I could really go for is some pie."

Dean finds a fifty year old greasy spoon with an app on his phone. Tas-T Diner, the place is called. Sam's never been there, but Dean's so keen on the idea, that's where they wind up.

Dean stuffs in another forkful and doesn't bother to swallow before he asks, "What is even a rhubarb?"

"It's a … plant." Sam attempts, but there's no way to explain without showing him.

"You do know that's a bitch answer, right?"

Sam takes a deep breath. If he never hears that word again, that would be fine. "Do you have to call me that?"

"Do you have to act like a bitch?"

Sam groans. "It's just... it's kind of... misogynistic."

Dean eyebrows shoot up and he doesn't bother to contain his laughter.

Sam rolls his eyes. "It means - "

"Yeah. I know what it means. And that's probably the bitchiest thing I've heard in my life." He sticks a piece of pie into his grinning mouth.

"Yeah?" It takes a lot to piss Sam off, but apparently Dean Smith has got what it takes because he swings back with, "Well, you're a jerk."

Dean raises his coffee before he drinks. He's clearly heard that one before. Sam could have called him an asshole, but that seems kind of harsh - even if it's true, at times.

Sam shakes his head, completely perturbed. He huffs. _'This kid.'_

Dean leans forward on his elbows and lifts his laden fork to Sam's mouth. He grins like the little imp he is. Sam should call him that. See how he feels about it.

Still, annoyed as he is, Sam can't help but mirror a smaller version of Dean's smile. But he keeps his lips shut, declining the peace offering of pie. "I probably shouldn't."

Dean gives him an encouraging nod and presses the pie to Sam's lips. "Just a little."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam notices a man watching them. A chill works its way down his spine. Since Dean is never going to take no for an answer, Sam gets it over with. He takes the pie and swallows without chewing. "Happy?"

Dean follows his gaze. "Sam, look at me. Fuck. Them."

Sam huffs and nods.

"Say it with me."

"I get it."

"I don't think so." Dean points at a woman who is also staring. "Look that chick right in the eye and say it."

When Sam refuses, Dean turns and glares at her. "Hey. You got a problem?"

"Come on. Don't." Sam puts his hand on Dean's wrist.

When the kid turns around, his face is taut, mouth set. "Come, now."

Sam blinks. "What?"

"Come. Right now."

Sam considers arguing, but strangely finds that he doesn't actually want to. He had decided when it started that he was going to go along with this - all the way. When Castiel used to want to play this way, he always expected Sam to be the dom. Now that the shoe's on the other foot, Sam wants to obey. At moments, he feels like he could follow Dean to the ends of the earth, if the boy asked right. The thought is unnerving and freeing at the same time, which is unnerving all over again.

Mind reeling, Sam rises to go to the bathroom.

"No." Dean barks, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Here."

Sam looks around the diner. People are mostly minding their own business again. He leans down to whisper. "Dean, this… This is a game for at home."

"It's for when I fucking say."

Sam slides back into his seat and tries to reason with a force of nature. "Listen…"

"Are you gonna do it or what?"

"Dean. This is a public place." It's like tossing logic into a hurricane.

"Do you want me to go under the table and take care of it for you?" Eyes trained on Sam's, he knocks his fork to the cracked linoleum floor.

It lands with an improbably loud clink that makes a few people look in their direction. That doesn't seem to be a issue for Dean. "Three. Two…"

"You're insane." Sam grits his teeth.

Blood boiling, already hard enough to cut diamonds, Sam swallows and searches the room as he surreptitiously opens his pants.

"Y'all need anything." Their waitress touches their table as she passes.

Sam forces a tight-lipped smile.

"No, ma'am," Dean answers with his green eyes dark and burrowing into Sam. "Now."

Sam's head swims, heart rate out of the roof. "Dean."

"Are you doing this?"

Dean's coffee shakes as Sam's trembling thigh makes contact with the table leg. Sam takes a deep breath and sits back. The moment he touches himself, he squeezes his eyes shut, pleasure amplified by the imminent danger of getting caught.

"Open your eyes, Sam. Look at me." At least Dean has the decency to talk more quietly now.

Sam obeys, and a blaze surges through him. Dean is leaning halfway across the table, breathing through his mouth. His eyes are still fixed on Sam's. So are the man's at the counter.

"Don't you fucking look at them." Dean grabs Sam's face and makes him comply.

"Dean," he whimpers and strokes.

"That's it, baby. Take care of yourself. That's it. Fuck these losers. This is about me and you." He's whispering now - voice barely audible from a few feet away.

Dean's hands are under the table, too. His right arm moving subtly.

There is a lash of fire for every movement, every word and a blanket of heat brought on by Dean's constant, penetrating gaze. Sam's not sure he could stop if Dean ordered it.

"That's it, Sammy."

Sam shakes away Castiel's pet name for him.

"Come. Now." Dean breathes the words.

Sam does as he's told. An avalanche of pleasure sweeps him under from his head to his curled toes. His body shivers and a small, broken sound escapes his bloody lips. He has bitten the hell out of them trying to keep himself quiet.

Before he's even breathing normally again, Sam reaches for a napkin.

"Uh-uh." Dean holds out his palm and gestures with his fingers. Sam gives him his left hand. Dean's eyes remain steely until Sam dredges up his soiled right hand. With his eyes still gripping Sam's, the kid sucks the come from his middle finger and moans like it's better than his pie.

Dean has already said he doesn't love the taste of semen, but it's not about that. Sam's not sure what it's about.

"Dean," he whimpers with his finger hanging out of the kid's mouth.

Castiel was unpredictable, but one thing Sam could always count on: no blatant public affection. Cas had suffered enough beatdowns to have learned that lesson well.

Sam's brain and body buzzes. He feels like he's entered a different universe. Like he's possibly dreaming or dead, and none of this is real. Dean is a mirage and Sam is hallucinating. There's no other feasible explanation for what just happened.

When Dean finally lets Sam wipe his hand, everyone in the place is watching them. Maybe they think his underage boyfriend has eaten pie filling from his fingers. Just maybe no one has called the cops on them yet. Sam shivers, not daring to raise his eyes to anyone's face but Dean's.

Dean licks his lips and says, "Good boy."

In the middle of the night, they're laying naked on the cloud - AKA - Sam's bed.

It's a good thing he actually digs Sam, because he would probably keep coming around just for the bed.

Dean's watching Yes Man while Sam makes out with his hand. Truth be told, Dean is pretending to watch Yes Man. Every cell in his body is aware of the brush of soft lips and scruff on his palm, the warm slide of tongue between his fingers, the hot suction when Sam sucks on them. Every little thing Sam does sends a smoke signal to Dean's dick.

Suddenly, Sam stops and it's all Dean can do not to complain.

"Let's go somewhere," Sam says, just as Jim Carey and that hot, goofy girl are getting on a plane.

Dean grins, assuming it's a game. "What, like these guys? Anywhere?"

"Yeah. You said you don't have school Monday."

Dean shrugs. "Some kind of Teacher Work thing."

"Have you been to New York in the fall?"

"I've never been to New York in the ever." Of all the places Dean and his mother have been, they never go anywhere people actually want to be.

"Okay, then. Done." Sam hops up and leaves the room.

Dean watches him go, because, that's a sight to behold. Sam returns less than a minute later with a laptop. Sitting cross-legged, he types feverishly. Dean watches the movie, more or less ignoring him until Sam asks, "What do you think of a 7:30 departure? It's brutal, but then we'll have more of the day in town."

"Wait a minute. You're not serious?" Dean sits up and sees by the travel website on Sam's computer that he's dead serious.

"Of course, I am. We could catch the first plane out. Be there by noon." Sam types and clicks. "Just got to find a hotel."

"Yeah. It's not gonna happen."

Sam looks over his shoulder at Dean, question plain on his face.

"You had me right up until 'plane.' I don't fly."

Sam smiles. "No one is asking you to fly. All you have to do is sit there and let the pilot do his job."

"Ha." So, now Sam's got jokes. "That's hilarious. Still not gonna happen. What's wrong with here? Your place is great."

"I haven't had a change of scenery in... a long time." He says it like he's giving a eulogy.

"Then, we can go for a walk."

Sam smiles softly and tilts his head in that way girls do when they try to convince you of something. Like pouring on the cute is going to make you want to watch Bridget Jones instead of Predator. "Have you ever been on a plane?"

Dean may look like a sucker, but a sucker he is not. "No. That's how I'm gonna keep it."

"I used to fly every week, sometimes twice."

"Good for you, Sam."

"It's not that bad." Sam shuts his laptop and looks Dean right in the face. "Look, are you thinking about college ball?"

"I'm not thinking about anything right now." Dean gestures to the TV. "That's the beauty of movies."

"Okay. You know what? Another time." He opens the screen and gets back to his typing.

"Not likely."

"I haven't been a road trip in forever. We can just drive somewhere."

Dean picks up remote and mutes the show. "You know, I'm not some kind of chick you have to wine and dine and take places."

"Yeah, I think I noticed." Sam grabs Dean's crotch. "I want to go somewhere, and I would love it if you would come with me."

"Yeah, well. I got homework and shit, so..." Dean scoots off the edge of the bed and goes into the bathroom.

His English teacher had assigned chapters for the long weekend. Not that Dean had any intention of reading them. He had started that book thinking it would be about baseball or food and it's not about either. Just some whiny kid complaining about phonies. Whatever, dude. People are fake. Suck it up.

When Dean comes back out, Sam is sitting on the side of his bed. "So, you want me to take you home?"

The laptop is open beside him. Dean nods at it. "You going to New York?"

"I don't know." Sam's hands are folded between his knees.

"You wanna go, you should go." Dean steps into his shorts. They're pretty ripe. Flipping them is no longer going to cut it. These bad boys need to go in the wash.

Sam stands and crosses the floor in a few broad steps. His hands slide down Dean's arms. "I want to go with you, Dean. That was the point."

Dean had known all along that it was the point. His inner jackass just wouldn't let him appreciate it. "You gonna let me drive?"

"Do you have your license?" The look on Sam's face makes it clear how awkward it is for him to be asking that question of the guy he's fucking.

He's going to like the answer even less. Dean replies, "Got my license to ill."

"So that's a no?" Sam doesn't even crack a smile.

"I drive better than you." Jody has made Dean do at least half the driving since his feet could reach the pedals.

Sam rolls his eyes. "So, no."

"Whatever."

In the dim light of the bedside lamp, Sam smiles softly at Dean's attempt to stifle a yawn. His long lashes rest on his cheeks for a moment before his eyes pop open again.

Sam chuckles. "You can go to sleep. You're not going to miss anything."

Dean nods and smacks his lips sleepily. "Yeah."

Sam looks at his mouth with a more intense hunger than he's felt in a long time.

Dean rolls over, facing away and murmurs, "Night."

He tenses, almost imperceptibly, when Sam attempts to make of him a cuddly, little spoon. It was worth a try. Sam kisses Dean's neck and rolls over to shut off the light.


	18. Chapter 18

**SUNDAY**

Sam had laughed like a maniac when his boxers slid back down Dean's slim hips. The kid didn't find it quite as hilarious and Sam had agreed to toss the kid's things into the laundry before they set out. Dean is about to put his clean jeans back on, but Sam can't help but fold them. Years of living under a military man had made that habit indelible. The shirt gets the same treatment.

His blood runs cold as he picks up a frilly, pink thong between his thumb and forefinger. He stares at them, reeling as if he's been punched in the gut. Biting his lip, he dutifully folds Dean's boxers, rolls his socks together and takes a deep breath. With the panties on top of the heap like a coral-colored cherry, he hands Dean his clothes and swiftly retreats from the bedroom.

Sam is still worrying his lip as he holds out a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Dean accepts the breakfast but just stands there. "Want me to say something?"

"No."

Dean shrugs. "I was at this party and this hot -"

"Would you not?" Sam winces. "Please."

"I mean, it's not like we…"

Sam drops the spatula into the pan and walks out of the kitchen.

He focuses all of his energy on packing his small Samsonite bag when he senses Dean behind him. Sam looks over his shoulder to confirm that he's standing in the door well, silently watching. It's an odd moment because although they both know they're leaving together, it feels like Sam is packing to walk out.

"Maybe this trip thing isn't such a good idea."

There's no good reason those words should sting Sam all over like they do. "Why?" He braces himself to hear about Dean's girlfriend since the kid seems hellbent on talking about her.

"If you're going to spend the whole time pissed at me…"

"I'm not pissed at you," Sam says through clenched teeth.

Dean scoffs. "Yeah, right."

"Honestly, I'm not."

"You're telling me you're not mad right now." Dean doesn't even dare to approach him.

"I am." Sam nods, slowly closing the zipper.

"I knew it."

Sam turns to face Dean and slings his bag onto his shoulder. "I'm not angry with you."

Confusion is plain on Dean's flawless face.

Sam can only be peeved with himself for getting this hurt. Exclusivity between them isn't even a blip on the horizon. He knows that Dean likes girls, too. Sam hadn't expected such a blatant reminder of those facts, but it's good that he was reminded what this is before he gets in any further over his head.

'Upset? Yes. At myself. Not you.'

Still, the kid gives him a wide berth for the next hour or so.

Dean wanders quietly into the kitchen while Sam is preparing some food to take along on the trip. He sidles up behind him and wraps his arms so tight around Sam's chest that it takes his breath away for a moment. Sam taps his wrist, and he loosens up a bit. Dean presses his face into the center of Sam's back and murmurs, "That girl -"

"Dean." Sam nearly whines, trying to get away. He doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't want to know.

"She ain't got nothing on you, Sam. I mean..." Dean clears throat.

Sam unlocks the arms and turns around so he can see Dean's queasy-looking face. The kid shuffles his feet and doesn't meet Sam's eyes.

"It's not important," Sam says, although he isn't sure whether it's true or not.

Dean looks relieved and that's all that matters. "We good?"

"Always." Sam smiles and looks at Dean's mouth.

He wants to kiss him so badly; his body vibrates with it.

"Cool." Dean nods and takes a step back. "I mean, we should just go and have a good time, right? Forget about ... everything else."

Sam licks his lips and nods. "Yeah. Just let me finish these up."

Dean bends over to get a better look at the scraped up car door. "What the hell happened here?"

Sam sighs. "Oh. Someone…" He shakes his head.

Dean raises his brow but doesn't ask for further explanation. Once he's in the driver's seat, he adjusts the leg room, then reaches up and fixes the mirror. "We'll be changing names when we move. Jody'll just get me my license then."

He never tells anyone about their way of life. It's weird telling Sam, but also kind of nice to have someone know something real about him for a change. "Buckle up, Sam. You're about to see your baby do things you didn't know she could."

Once you get past the initial douchery of the electric motor, the Prius is not bad. Dean gets her out on the road. She handles all right. Has a little pickup. She's no GTO (which he knows, having once jacked one), but she'll do. He glances over. "She got a name?"

"The car?" Sam asks like Dean is speaking French.

"No?" He shrugs. "How 'bout Loretta? She seem like a Loretta to you? No, wait. She's Japanese, right? Yoko." He smiles and nods, petting the steering wheel. "Hey, Yoko. How you feeling today, sweetheart?" He grins over at Sam who only quirks a brow at him like he's flirting with an inanimate object.

"Take a left here. We're heading due east."

Dean has decided in atonement for the thong, he's going to suck it up and deal with the fact that he doesn't know where they're going. That's a lot easier to accept seeing that he's driving and Sam's the lowly navigator. "I guess I'm gonna have to get used to surprises... if I keep hanging out with you."

"Was it really so bad at Charlie's?"

"No. She's incredibly cool. Wouldn't tell me what she's making, but…"

"Because it's a surprise."

Dean chuckles.

"Canton, Ohio." Sam spills, although it still doesn't tell Dean anything.

He and Jody have driven through Canton. It's no New York. It is, however, a good little piece of driving from Kansas City, Missouri. "That's like…"

"Half a day," Sam answers, catching his drift.

"At least." Dean checks out of the window before pulling into the far right lane so he can really start sailing. "What the hell's in Canton?"

"Pro-ball hall of fame."

Dean's eyebrows raise. "Huh."

He hadn't expected Sam to just tell him. He also hadn't expected it to be such a great idea. The grin spreads slowly as he glances over at Sam who smiles at Dean's approval.

"How about we get some tunes going in here, Sammy?" Dean says and smacks Sam's thigh like he owns the thing. When a man's behind the wheel, he might as well own the passengers, the car, the road and the whole goddamn country.

"Listen, Dean. Seriously. Don't call me Sammy. Please." Sam scratches his forehead, face drawn and suddenly so solemn again.

But he taps the button on the stereo and watches Dean's face to gauge his choice in music. No, thank you to easy listening jazz crap. Big fat frown to talk radio.

Eagles' Desperado, almost from the beginning. Guilty pleasure.

Sam starts to change it. Dean catches his hand.

"Seriously?"

Dean shrugs. "Good song."

"Is it?"

"Listen. Where I come from, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Sam rolls his eyes and doesn't point out that it's his car. He keeps quiet for most of the song. At the tail end, he starts to speak. Dean holds up his hand for silence and croons along on that last line. "Before it's tooooo late."

When the piano is done, he waves his hand, allowing the man to continue.

Sam chuckles. "You are a ridiculous person. You know that?"

Dean shrugs. He's not going to argue.

"So, is your name really Dean?" Sam's face is tight, like he's scared of the answer. "You said, you get a new ID every town, so…"

"Yeah. We just switch up the last name. Johnson, Jones, Miller, you know. Whatever generic thing she thinks of. Keep trying to get her to got with Clapton or Van Halen. Closest I ever got was Richards."

Sam snickers. "Jagger's not exactly inconspicuous."

"Guess not."

Sam's voice drops so low Dean can barely hear the question over the music. "How long do you usually stick around?"

"No set pattern. That would sort of defeat the purpose."

Sam nods, thoughtfully - like he does everything.

"Longest we ever stayed anywhere was Barstow, for about a year. She had met this guy. Complete prick, but that's how she likes 'em."

Sam thinks some more, leaving Dean to his Sabbath, before he says, "I like Dean. The name."

"Yeah?" He grins softly. "I like Sam. Sammy."

"It's what my ex called me…"

Dean takes a breath and nods through the sudden, unexpected chill. "So, he's just ruined it for the rest of it?"

"Afraid so." Sam clears his throat and leans back against the headrest. "What about your birthday?"

"We switch that up, too. Apparently, it's the first thing he would look for."

"So, you could actually still be 15?"

"No," Dean says firmly and changes the station when the commercials start.

"How do you decide which one to celebrate?"

"We don't... I got to memorize the new one every time, which is kind of a drag. You know, your dad gave me a cupcake. He's really an okay guy. I don't understand why you two -"

Sam gives a small, but final shake of his head. "Not going there, Dean."

Dean shrugs and bops his head along to the hip-hop on the radio.

Sam sighs. "When is it? Your real birthday."

"Couple weeks ago. Day after the fake one this time." Dean keeps his eyes on the road, so he doesn't have to see what kind of face Sam is making. His voice is quiet and sad sounding enough.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Dean just shrugs. "Not a big deal."

Sam nods courteously as the patrol car passes. He's bent slightly forward pumping the gas. From behind, a hand slips between his legs, and by reflex, his back snaps upright. "Jesus, Dean."

The hand remains firm against the center of his back, urging him to lean forward again. Flame licks right up the center of Sam's chest as the other palm slides between his legs again and cups his groin. "Dean."

The man at the bay in front of them glowers and climbs into his car. Dean stands on his tiptoes to nip Sam's ear before chuckling and taking the passenger's seat.

Sam adjusts himself in his pants, gets in and shuts the door. He considers the many different ways to express what he's thinking and says, "Dean, you can't just -"

"Check this out." The plastic bag crinkles loudly as he lines up its contents on the dashboard. "Slim Jims, white cheddar popcorn, Combos, which is pretty much a meal unto itself. A couple of cokes. And..."

Dean smirks and waggles his eyebrows at what appears to be a lifetime supply of Trojans. Sam tries not to cringe at the spread. It's incredibly considerate of Dean to have brought two of everything, except that none of it is actual food. "You know I brought those wraps, right?"

"With the leftover tofu? Yeah. I'm not eating that." He peels the plastic from one of the jerkies and offers Sam the first bite. "Made with real beef."

And all kinds of other things that Sam refuses to put into his body. He turns away from the fake meat Dean tries to force between his lips. Finally, Dean shrugs and chomps half of the thing himself. Then, he presents Sam with a pamphlet for a haunted house wax museum in Hannibal, Missouri along with wide, eager eyes.

"You do know that it's twelve hours to Canton."

"Just for like ten minutes. They got a serial killer's exhibit. How can you say no to that?"

Dean elbows his way to the front of the line. He dances down the steps like Fred Astaire, feet making a little rhythm as he hurries along after the tour guide. He glances back over his shoulder, once, eyes wide. His tongue breaches an even wider grin.

Sam chuckles and waves him on, content to bring up the rear behind a portly family all wearing neon orange shirts.

In the bone-chillingly cool cellar, Dean's hand ventures to touch one of the statues. The guide clears her throat. He swiftly locks his hand with the other one behind his back. She carries on with her memorized spiel, leading them to the next exhibit.

Bouncing on his toes and flapping his fingers, Dean raises his hand to ask what would be the fifth question in as many minutes. Sam covers his smile with his hand while the guide overlooks Dean completely. As advertised, she continues the tour into a room of Missouri-based serial killers.

Here, Sam gently glides towards the front of the group for a better view. Dean looks over and nods. When the guide's back is turned, his hand runs over Fay Copeland's rifle and noisily knocks the thing to the floor. Sam puts a few inches between them, laughing to himself and shaking his head.

As Dean stoops to pick up the weapon, the tour guide snatches it away. She adjusts it properly in the exhibit. Then she scowls at Dean as if he had murdered five drifters instead of just making a little mess.

They let the group move ahead of them. Sam slips his arm around Dean's waist but moves away immediately when the bright-orange clad mom turns to give them a disapproving glare. Dean clutches Sam close, nearly throwing him off balance. Sam huffs and offers the woman a tight, apologetic smile.

Her eyes move down the line of their bodies, joined hip to thigh. She turns away quickly and grips her son by both ears to keep him from peeking at them. Dean chuckles. Before they proceed to the next exhibit, he pokes the statue of Ray Copeland right in the chest.

On their way to the car, Dean spins on his heel, walking backwards so he can face Sam. He grins like a much younger kid. "Dude, that was awesome. Did you see the guts?"

Sam grins, too. He had seen the guts. Mostly, though, he had seen Dean.

Dean smacks Sam's arm the moment he sees the sign. "Dude."

Sam raises a brow. "We're not making it to Canton, are we?"

"It's not going anywhere."

So, they pull into the parking lot of the Largest Arcade in Missouri.

Dean stands in line for quarters while Sam runs to the bathroom. He's already done by the time Sam comes out, and searches the dark, noisy room. Dean grins and creeps along the shadows so that he can pounce. From behind, he takes two handfuls of Sam's insane chest and presses himself up against Sam's ass.

Sam spins and knocks him back. He grips Dean's arm tightly and drags him to a corner. "Hey. You need to knock that off. I'm not one of your little girlfriends."

Shock, along with Sam's anger, slam into Dean like a flash of lightening. All this PDA shit is not something he has ever done with anyone else. He feels like a blue ribbon moron for thinking he could try it with Sam. He frees his arm and steps aside, blinking through the ache in his chest.

"Dean."

Dean nods sharply and goes to find something to shoot. In no time, Sam is at his side like a chattering devil, and it's a damn good thing this gun isn't real. There's no telling what or who Dean would put a hole in if it was.

Sam stands there like he's just watching Dean play, but he murmurs, "What's between us is... it's private, okay?"

"Yep. Got it." The machine makes a loud series of beeps as Dean picks off fifteen mummies in a row and gets upgraded to zombies.

"I'm sorry, I…" Sam touches Dean's wrist.

He yanks away, aims and fires. "It's cool."

"I…"

Dean rolls back his tense shoulders, wishing the guy would shut up and fuck off.

Sam whispers, "I like when you touch me. I … love it. I can't stand people watching. I don't ... It makes me uncomfortable."

"To be seen with me." Dean mows down a line of zombies.

Behind those, an army of werewolves approaches.

"Come on, Dean. You know that's not it."

"Because of my age."

Sam hesitates.

"Or you just don't want people to know you're a fag?"

Jackpot. That has the desired effect. Sam huffs, takes a step back and says, "Text me when you're done."

Dean doesn't watch him leave. He kills some kind of creepy cat-people and goes on murdering creatures until his right arm feels like it's going to fall off.

He wanders between the games for a while, but nothing else really catches his eye. He buys himself a slice of pizza, chats up the girl behind the counter, half hoping Sam will see. She has on too much makeup, but it's just something to do anyway.

When he finally leaves the place, Sam is sitting on his hood reading some thick-ass book. "What is that, the bible?"

Sam looks up and shows him the cover. In Search of Lost Time.

Dean shrugs. He's never heard of it. "Any good?"

"Yeah." Sam nods to the arcade. "How was your …."

"Well, I'm apparently a professional level hunter of supernatural entities. So, if you ever need that, let me know."

"Yeah. I'll do that." Sam smiles softly. "You want to drive?"

"Nah. You go ahead."

It's Sam's idea to stop at the roadside farmer's market. He pulls over, thinking maybe a little fruit will split the difference in their food preferences. While Sam picks out apples and pears, Dean meanders into the pumpkin patch.

With his bag hanging from his forearm, Sam leans against a post and watches Dean strike up a conversation with an older gentleman in muddy jeans and a sun hat. Dean waves and Sam returns the gesture. After a while, he wanders back from the patch with his hands in his back pockets.

"What was that?"

"That's Carl. He owns all this." Dean indicates the property and the produce. "Hey, come here."

Sam follows.

"What the hell is that?" Dean points.

For the first time, Sam notices that there are handwritten prices, but no tags on the various bins. He picks up a vegetable and offers it to Dean. "Turnip, meet Dean."

"Is it as nasty as it looks?"

Sam laughs. "It's… kind of bland. You want to grab a few and I'll cook 'em when we get home… back… to my place."

"Nah." Dean drops it back into the bin.

They skip the broccoli and cauliflower. Dean points to the next basket.

Sam calls out each by name. "Beets. Parsnips. Those are squash. Those, too. Actually, the whole rest of this row."

"All squash?" Dean picks up one and turns it over in his hands.

Sam nods. "Yeah. There's at least thirty different kinds of squash. Technically, pumpkin is a cultivar of squash, as well."

Still holding the gourd, Dean looks up at him. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

He asks the question so matter-of-factly that Sam's mouth falls open. His hands rest on Dean's shoulders. When he notices Carl, the farmer, watching them, as well as, the prying eyes of the woman behind the counter, he drops them again. What Sam really wants is to hug this kid and kiss his forehead and just rock him. Instead, he steps back and leans forward to capture his eyes. "I think that your mother has had other things on her mind than cooking parsnips."

"How confident are you in your driving?"

Dean almost doesn't bother to answer Sam's question. He's got one hand on the wheel, his elbow out of the window and a sweet cube of Asian pear in his mouth. A little silence would be just the thing right now. Sam talks a lot. "Completely. Why?"

"So, I could... go to sleep and you'd be fine?"

"Sure. You tired?" Dean opens his mouth and leans over for another piece of fruit.

Sam feeds him the last bit, wipes off and folds Dean's Swiss Army Knife back together. "And if I were to do something... potentially distracting…"

Dean looks over, brow raised. "Such as?"

"It's a hypothetical question."

"I told you, Sam. I'm a better driver than you are." To prove it, he weaves around the slowpoke in front of him and back into their lane, narrowly avoiding an oncoming pickup truck.

Sam gasps and clutches the door handle. "You're a more aggressive driver than I am, which is not the same thing."

"I could drive with my eyes closed."

"See." Sam shakes his head. "That does not instill confidence."

"I'm kidding." Dean smiles softly, pleased to have worked Sam up a little bit. It's entertaining. "What do you got in mind?"

"Just keep your eyes on the road."

Dean had hoped, but had not dared to ask. The fact that he's driving Sam's car without a license is already surprising. When Sam's hand comes for his fly, Dean sucks in his stomach and forces himself not to look down.

The driver's seat makes a quiet mechanical hum as Dean slides back a few inches to make space. Sam chuckles, "Hands on the wheel."

Dean grips that thing at 10 and 2.

His lips fall open slightly as Sam reaches in, pulls him out and slowly strokes with his left hand. Dean blows out a slow, calm rush of air, promptly straightening the car when he notices that they are veering - ever so slightly, to the right.

"You okay?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean answers breathless and eases his foot off the gas so that the slowpoke can overtake them.

They're crawling down this two-lane highway at about 40 miles per hour. There's hardly any other traffic, but Sam breathes the words warm into his ear, "I'm putting my life in your hands."

Dean nods. Sam unbuckles his seatbelt, spits into his palm and wraps it around Dean's dick.

Dean fights the desire to close his eyes and prove that claim he just made. He pants through the heat and tension as it builds. Sam has the nerve to ask, "Is that good?"

Dean swoons for a second. "Yeah."

He shakes his head to clear it and keeps his eyes on the road, even if all the blood in his body is elsewhere.

Sam tucks his hair behind his ears and Dean's mind goes on auto-pilot. Sam lowers his head, but doesn't take him in. He just kitten licks the tip and moans. "You know, if you eat a lot of fruit, you'll get even sweeter."

"Is it sweet?" Dean slides his right hand through Sam's hair, because there's no way not to.

"You taste so good," Sam answers, winded, like he's starving for it.

Dean knows better. He's tried his own cum and had it from a variety of other sources. It's like snot with none of snot's redeeming qualities. But he is not going to debate about it. Sam sticks his tongue into the slit.

"Jesus, Sam."

His tongue slides around the tip.

"Take it." Dean can't keep his hips from rising from the seat.

Sam pins him in place with those strong hands on his thighs. "Sh. I'm not going to bring you off."

"What?!" Dean nearly drives off the road at that revelation.

Sam sits up and wipes his mouth with his thumb. "Until we get to the hotel."

"You... " Dean sucks in loudly, willing himself not to cuss and call Sam what he's thinking. "This is payback, isn't it?"

"It's not payback. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"Look at me." Dean frowns down at his rock hard, sorely abandoned dick. "You little... big fucking tease."

He doesn't have a choice but to take matters into his own hands.

Sam catches his wrist. "Dean. You have to wait."

"Oh, fuck you." He pulls his hand away.

Sam wraps his palm around Dean's neck and kneads hard. "It'll be worth it. I'll make it worth it, I promise."

"Tease." Tears pool in the corner of Dean's eyes.

"Just a few minutes, baby." Sam leans over and coos right into his ear, "Three more exits. I'm going to suck you so good. I can't wait to get your pretty cock in my mouth. You going to wait for me, baby? Huh?"

Burning alive, Dean's head lolls forward. "You asshole."

Sam asks Dean to wait in the car. He doesn't say it's because he doesn't want the kid humping him while he's trying to talk with the concierge, but that is a deciding factor.

He gets two room keys. Dean will like that. On his way out of the automatic doors, Sam sees Dean lean into the passenger side of a huge SUV. The driver's legs hang out of the other side, back turned to Dean, so that the man must be completely oblivious to the kid trying to knab something from him.

Lips pursed, stomach sinking, Sam considers whether to let the little delinquent get away with whatever he's up to. Before Sam can decide how to handle the situation, Dean stands up and carries a cane around to the driver.

The older gentleman smiles and ventures to climb down to his feet. Dean holds out his arm in an offer of support. Finally, understanding correctly and puffing out a sigh of relief, Sam hurries across the parking lot.

The man shrinks back a bit as he approaches.

"It's okay." Dean pats his arm. "This is Sam. He's my… friend. Could probably carry you if you want. Sam, this is Dennis."

Sam nods a greeting and lets Dennis appraise him. He knows his size can be intimidating for some people.

"Dennis is riding on a pair of brand new hips. His nephew was supposed to meet him, but he got tied up at work. Good thing we're here, right? You want this sasquatch to lug you in there? 'Cause he can do it. Or you can hop up on his back."

Sam winces, unsure how he feels at being called a bigfoot and being volunteered as a pack mule. Thankfully, the old man, declines the piggy back ride. However, he accepts Dean's offer that they carry his luggage.

The minute they step through the double doors, Dean gawks at Sam. His mouth is wide open as he takes in the chandelier and the sunken sitting area in the lobby. The receptionist calls one of her associates to assist Dennis the rest of the way.

The old man shakes Dean's hand and offers him a wad of cash. The kid steps back, both hands raised. "No way, man. Just helping out."

Dennis nods at Dean and frowns suspiciously at Sam.

In the elevator, the kid folds his arms over his chest and watches the numbers light up on the overhead display. "You ever gonna stop looking at me?"

"Not likely."

By some miracle, Sam manages to wait until the hotel room door clicks shut behind them before he pins Dean to it. He breathes heavily wanting to devour every inch of him. Sam leans in close and Dean turns aside.

Sam whispers, "Let me kiss you."

The kid closes his eyes and shakes his head. Sam swallows thickly, opens Dean's button and presses his nose against his cheek. "Please."

"No." Dean shoves him away.

"Why?"

"I don't fucking want to." He storms across the room and empties balled up dollar bills from his pockets onto the desk.

Sam keeps himself pressed against the door to keep from marching over there and making a bigger nuisance of himself. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites down hard.

Dean smooths the bills out as flat as they'll go. "Fifty-six bucks. It's what I got. Will that pay for half?"

"This one's on me." Sam tries to smile, but his senses are still reeling.

"I need to contribute…"

For reasons unbeknownst to him, Sam is on the verge of tears. He wants to fall on his knees and beg, although he doesn't know for what. Love? Absolution? A kiss? "No, you don't."

"You can't just pay for everything."

"I want to."

Dean's jaw clenches. "I'll leave this here. You take it or the maid will." He marches past Sam and barricades himself in the bathroom.

Sam runs a hand through his hair and sits on the edge of the bed, breath shaky.

Twenty minutes later, when Dean still hasn't reemerged, Sam knocks on the door. "I've got to go take care of something. I left your room key on the desk."

There's no answer, so Sam shakes his head and leaves.

Dean doesn't respond to the knock on the door. Sam'll figure it out or he won't. Eventually, the knob turns and he enters, looking fricking humongous from this angle.

"Have you been in here the whole time?"

"Fell asleep." Dean licks the dried slobber from the side of his mouth.

"You're ridiculous. You know that?" Sam sits on the side of the tub.

"You're giving me whiplash, dude."

Sam cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy.

"First, you tell me not to touch you. Then, you fucking blow me in the car, but you don't let me come."

"Dean." Sam offers his hand to help him up.

Dean just looks at it.

"Oral sex in the car is a bad idea. It was stupid of me to have started and I'm sorry."

Dean scoffs. It wouldn't have been a bad idea if he would have just finished.

"Secondly, I never asked you not to touch me. I would never… I asked you to be more discreet in public."

"You want me to be scared?" Dean sits up in the tub.

"I want you to be wise. And realize that not everyone is so highly evolved as you are. Now, will you, please, come out of the bathtub and let me…" Sam shakes his head and laughs. "Just come on."

Dean sulks for a few minutes longer, before he hoists himself up with a groan. His neck is never going to be right again. He rubs it with both hands and sighs as he drags himself into the suite.

He hadn't even given himself a proper chance to appreciate how awesome this place is. It's more of an apartment than a hotel room. He trudges through the bedroom into the living room area to find Sam standing there with a Happy Birthday balloon in his hand.

There are wrapped presents all over the place.

"What'd you do, rob Santa Claus?"

"You'll be happy to know that I have now been inside of a Walmart. You need to start on that end." Sam points to the far side of the sofa. "I didn't know what to get."

"So you got everything in the fucking store?" Dean wants to storm out of the room or toss these things out of the window, but he's too confused to even budge. "What the hell is this?"

"It's for your birthday. For every one I've missed." Sam lets the balloon float to the ceiling so he can hand Dean the first present.

The wrapping paper crinkles in his hand, the sound soft like a sweet secret. Dean could listen to that sound all day. It's not one he's heard often, if ever. There are footballs and field goals on all of the paper, the whole line of gifts - it's too surreal. He feels like he's stepped into someone else's life for a moment or into a dream he might have had when he was a little kid.

"You going to open it?" Sam asks.

So, he opens it and holds up the trunks. They have octopuses (octopi?) all over.

"I don't know if you saw, that there's a pool. I know you didn't bring yours because we weren't planning to go anywhere."

Dean doesn't own any. Well, he does now, but he still doesn't know how to swim.

"You wouldn't believe how long I stood in front of those tight little speedos. That's why I got you tighty whities. Hope you don't mind. Actually they're black. But your underwear are on their last thread and I..." Sam's face flushes and he clamps his mouth shut.

Dean's chest warms at the color of Sam's cheeks. He puts the swim shorts on the table and watches Sam fold them up. It seems to be a habit of his.

The next package contains blue goggles. The next one is blue flippers. Sam smiles and shrugs. "Merman fetish."

There's a green, long sleeve t-shirt and a pair of black jeans.

"You're going to look amazing in that."

The smallest box has the coolest multi-tool that Dean has ever seen. Sam explains, "Yours is all dull. How long have you had that thing?"

Dean doesn't tell him that he had pinched it off an old guy in a homeless shelter a few years back. That guy could have had it in Vietnam, for all Dean knows.

This thing Sam bought looks like it was designed for space exploration. The box says it has 19 functions. Dean plays with it for a full five minutes before putting it on the table.

He tears the paper off of, but doesn't even open, the box for the Nintendo 3DS or for the game Resident Evil.

"The people at the store told me this is good, if you like, you know, killing things."

There's an electric toothbrush, like Sam's but green instead of blue. And an identical Norelco shaving kit.

"I saw you admiring mine this morning, so, I thought…"

This is the point when Dean realizes that this is actually happening. He stands there looking at the opened presents, the as of yet unopened ones, the growing pile of wrapping paper. He bites on his lip and looks at Sam. He doesn't know what he's feeling, because he's never felt it before. Maybe there isn't even a word for it.

There are words in his throat that won't form and emotions bubbling under his skin and boiling in his belly. All he can do is blink at Sam.

"I know you don't…" Sam huffs and licks his lips. "You are going to have to get used to me doing things for you. It's not going to stop. And… repaying me?" Sam shakes his head. "It's not about that. You accept and you're repaying me."

Dean's breath hitches. He shakes his head repeatedly and closes his eyes. It's too much. He doesn't open them when he feels Sam's hands on his face or on his waist. He doesn't watch Sam open his pants or wrap his warm lips around him. Dean doesn't open his eyes or even dare touch his shoulder or his hair.

It's not sex, what Sam's doing to him. It's too gentle, too tender. It's all whisper-soft and apple-sweet tugs of his lips. Dean doesn't think he can come from it - until he does. But it's not an orgasm. It's something else. It's this feeling that swells his heart up, like the Grinch, three four five sizes too big. So big, it aches in his chest. And when he can manages to speak again, it's only to breathe the word, "Sam."

Dean positively shines in the grey satin suit with the slim black tie over the emerald green button down shirt that Sam just knew would bring out his eyes. The shoes are too small and it's not yet cold enough for the winter coat. He still looks like something out of a daydream.

There's only ice cream on the dessert menu. Dean mumbles, "Did you plan this?"

Sam chuckles quietly, honoring the almost complete silence in which they had eaten their steak dinner. "I swear, I didn't."

By the time they're back on the road, the sun is setting. Sam pulls off on the shoulder right outside of Grafton. There's a bridge overlooking the point where the Mississippi and the Illinois Rivers meet.

They don't speak. They've hardly said a word since this afternoon. Instead, they've been floating carefully around each other in a formal dance of cautious courtesy. It's almost as if there's a thin thread between them that will break if either of them speaks or treads too loudly.

Dean shuts the car door softly. He walks over onto the bridge and clasps his hands on the railing.

Sam approaches him slowly, as if Dean were a feral animal that could so easily rip him apart. He wraps his arms around the boy's arms and chest and places a kiss on the side of his warm neck.

Silently, he pleads, 'Please, don't push me away.'

Dean has been going at this all wrong. Kissing Sam has become such a big, honking deal, not because it actually is one, but because he's making it into one. Still, just thinking about it sets off the circus in his gut. Some people say butterflies. Dean never had butterflies and this is way more activity than a swarm of bugs.

The air around them crackles. Sam's cologne is making him dizzy. Or maybe the way Sam holds him so tight is choking the life out of him. Dean takes a deep breath to be sure he still can.

Sam's chin rests on his shoulder. Dean squirms and Sam drops his arms, lets him go. "Do you want to keep moving?"

'Now.'

Dean turns, grabs a fistful of Sam's shirt, and pulls him down for a proper plundering. Before their lips meet Sam draws back slightly. Dean's heart is thudding like mad. He needs to get a hold of himself. Then, he'll have control of the situation.

'Fucking calm down.'

Sam smiles softly and takes Dean's face between his huge, hot hands. Their lips brush so briefly, so lightly and linger for only the sweetest moment before Sam searches his eyes and breathes the word, "Wow."

Dean can only imagine Sam is talking about the fucking sparks, which means he could feel them, too. Sam shivers slightly, hands on Dean's neck.

People write songs, they compose symphonies, about moments like this. Then they cut off their ears and jump off of bridges when those moments are over.

Dean has a deep breath, and steps back. His chest is still hot, circus animals stampeding in his stomach. He shifts his weight on his feet. "Need to piss."

He stumbles into the woods and wipes his hand over his mouth. Not wiping it away. Rubbing it in. Shutting his eyes. Soaking in it. Replaying the kiss over and over until he's soft and hard with it.

He huffs out a breath and looks at the water before he leans back against a tree and slides to the ground.

Eventually, Sam settles beside him - radiating warmth like a space heater. His hand hovers over for a second before he claims Dean's fingers - twining them together like this day hasn't already been chick-flicky enough.

Dean tells himself he's doing it for Sam. He would never hold hands like this or bask in the warmth and the blood-orange glow of the setting sun. Once it's set, he gets up and walks back to the car.

Back at the hotel, there is talk of swimming but no energy to follow through. There is also the crown jewel of Sam's gifts to unwrap. Sam holds his hands over Dean's eyes and leads him to the table in the kitchenette.

Dean brings the open box to his nose and smiles. He opens his eyes and the grin grows.

Sam takes it from him. "Wait here while I put this in the oven."

"We have an oven? Jody and me have stayed in actual apartments that didn't have an oven."

Sam smiles and sets the pie to bake at 250 degrees. Then, he turns his full attention on the incredibly handsome, impeccably dressed young man he has all to himself. "Is this your first time a suit?"

Dean shakes head. "Always wear one to court. This is the first one that's mine." He glances down at himself, still with an air of disbelief.

Sam's hands run down his arms. "It's yours. And you won't be wearing it to court."

"Ok, Dad." Dean smirks, sarcastic cockiness finally resurfacing after the long quiet of the evening.

Sam smiles and slides the jacket slowly off Dean's shoulders. He hangs it over the back of a chair. Then, he takes a fistful of the tie and drags Dean's mouth to his. The kid's eyes widen a little, but he doesn't resist.

Sam licks along the seam of his lips. They open like the Pearly Gates and Sam enters with all the reverence Dean deserves. Their tongues meet in the space between them and for a moment, Dean grapples for control of the kiss. Sam tightens his grip on the tie, pulling the kid even closer to his chest. After a moment, he relinquishes.

That is all Sam wants in this moment: this boy, pliant and willing. Sam sucks on his lush lower lip, nibbles it and then lets go. He loosens Dean's tie, though not all the way. Carefully, he releases each button on his shirt, as well as the pants. The zipper, he leaves in place. He smooths a hand down his ribs, reveling in Dean's soft skin over firm, lean muscle and the stilted inhalations he's trying not to make. Sam has a deep breath and steps back to survey his masterpiece.

Dean closes his mouth to swallow and it parts again immediately. Sam licks his lips, unbuttons and unzips his own fly. His head tilts to the side, breath catching in his throat as he realizes just how very much he wants to fuck this kid right now.

He spins a chair from the table and sits. Dean blinks but doesn't move.

Sam pulls himself out and watches Dean's eyes darken at the sight of his arousal. Dean licks his lips and Sam chuckles.

He wants to, but he won't. Not until Dean asks him for it.

Sam licks his hand and slowly strokes himself while he imagines entering that mouth with his thumb first and then two of his fingers. He'd make Dean get them nice and wet while his other hand finished getting those pants around his knees. Sam would lean him over this table and finger him until he begged for Sam's cock.

He would take his time and make them both crazy. But when he finally did slide into that heat - nice and steady - he would make Dean love it, make it so he never wanted Sam to stop.

The kid's new pants are tented and stained now. All for Sam. It's beautiful. He's beautiful. Sam wants inside of him so bad, he whimpers.

With his left hand, he beckons. Dean sways on his feet for a moment before stepping between Sam's knees. His hands fall on Sam's shoulders. He's trembling.

Stroking himself faster, Sam wraps an arm around Dean's thigh and drags him closer. He presses his lips to the boy's quivering stomach. Kisses it. Tongues his navel. It makes him shudder and Sam does it again. He sucks sweetly on Dean's salty skin and then sucks hard enough to stain him. Sam comes, like that: tremors racking his body as he sucks his mark over Dean's hipbone.

Warm, homemade apple pie eaten directly from the pan, canned laughter from Sanford and Son, Dean's head on his shoulder, Sam's hand tucked between Dean's thighs. Finally, for once, everything is right with the world.


	19. Chapter 19

**MONDAY**

Dean's eyes flutter open to the sight of Sam sleeping. He looks like he's been airbrushed by angels: hair all over the pillow and hanging in his face, his pink mouth is slightly parted, breathing slow and deep. Dean closes his eyes again for a second and soaks up the warmth pouring off of him. He's always so fucking warm.

The hand on Dean's chest is downright hot. The way Sam's legs are sprawled over his, it doesn't matter that the blankets are half off. It's so cozy and familiar that a red alarm goes off in Dean's mind like an air raid siren. ' _Back away. Too close.'_

Dean hears the advice he's giving himself and knows it's solid. He knows he should get up, take a leak, take a shower, and be dressed before Sam even wakes up.

He can't tear himself away from this sight, though. He sighs and wipes the hair from Sam's forehead. He kisses Sam's cheek and breathes in the last traces of that cologne as it blends with Sam's musk. He stirs slightly, and Dean kisses his smile. "Sleep good?"

Sam's answer is a low hum. Dean wants to curl up in that sound and die. He nudges Sam onto his back and crawls onto his wide chest. He slides down Sam's leg, rubbing against him and pressing his chest over Sam's wood. He nuzzles Sam's chest where the scent of him is even stronger and makes his way south to where it's sharpest of all.

Sam chuckles awake. He grabs both sides of Dean's head just before he takes a mouthful of his dick. "Hey. Wait. I have to go to the bathroom."

"Aw. You fucking spoilsport." Dean groans, rolls over onto his back and, grabs his dick.

"Good morning to you, too. I'll be right back." Sam hops up.

He dances to the can, picking up his feet as if the tiles are burning him, although they're probably ice-cold. While he's in the can, his phone rings.

Dean looks at the clock. 5:13 AM. He scratches his lip and eyeballs Sam's phone. His self-control is good, but it's not that good. He crawls over and peeks - UNKNOWN.

By the time Sam gets back, it has stopped, and Dean has to go.

It rings again while he's pissing. He tries not to hear - doesn't want to be like that - but it's a small space.

"Would you stop, please?" Sam answers quietly.

He always talks quietly, so that's no big deal. Dean ignores the twinge in his chest and flushes the toilet.

Re-entering the room, Dean's eyes flick to the phone. It's laying right back where it was when he left. "So, I ruined your plans; you decide what we do today."

Sam shakes his head, shoulders slumped like he's still tired. His spine straightens with a deep breath, and he holds his hands out for Dean. He scoots to the end of the bed so that he can capture him between his legs. "You didn't ruin my plans. You made this the best weekend of my life."

"Shut up." Dean pushes him, playfully.

"I'm not kidding."

"Then, you need to get out more," Dean says, although he can't think of a better one himself. "So, what are we gonna do?"

"Shower, 'cause you stink."

Dean confirms that remark with a sniff of his pits. It's not a lie. Sam clamps his mouth around his right nipple anyway. He swirls his tongue around it and plays with his balls until Dean's knees buckle. "Shit."

Sam's hand is firm against the small of his back. Dean will take it to his grave how much he loves that feeling - that huge hand on his back like Sam owns him. The fingers of Sam's other hand poke his hip. Dean looks down at the huge hickey he must have left last night. "Damn."

"Is your girl going to get mad?" Sam asks, and he's completely sincere.

Dean is about to correct him and realizes it's a perfect cover. It's a lifeline. If Sam thinks he's just another lay, let him. It's safer that way. Dean shakes his head.

"Good." Sam kisses the spot and reaches over onto the bedside table to pick up the stack of tourist brochures.

Dean slides onto the bed behind him, sitting close enough to gently hump his ass while Sam thumbs through the leaflets. Sam's palm closes around his thigh. "Who needs a puppy?"

"Funny." Dean clasps his arms around him.

His hands roam over Sam's lower abs, dick getting hard again as it slots up between his bare cheeks.

"All right there, Fido."

"Fuck you." Dean bites his shoulder.

"You clearly want to."

Dean smiles against Sam's shoulder and sidles up closer. Fuck these underwear Sam gave him. He slips himself out of the slit in the fabric and into the crest of Sam's ass.

"You horny little rabbit."

Dean laughs at that and doesn't stop grinding. He's getting close - muscles tightening, heart pounding in his ear.

"Come on, then." Sam tosses the pamphlets on the floor and grabs the lube from the bedside table.

The phone silently lights up instead of ringing this time. It looks like a mistake when Sam knocks it on the floor. Dean leans to pick it up. Sam catches his arm, places the lube in his hand and prostrates himself face down on the side of the mattress.

"Fuck." Dean crawls over him, over the bed to grab a rubber from his table. Sam snickers and waits.

Dean kicks off his briefs. Then he dribbles lube down Sam's crack and over his own dick.

"So messy," Sam gripes, peeking over his shoulder with a grin.

Dean smacks his ass with his left hand, rolling down the condom with the right. "Shut up. Do you need..."

"No. Go ahead. Just take it easy."

Dean bends his knees to align himself. It's a somewhat awkward position, but he's not going to complain while Sam is laid out like the greatest gift of all. Gripping himself at the base, he holds his breath and presses his tip to Sam's hole. "Sam, I'm gonna…"

"No. You're not." Sam reaches back for a handful of Dean's ass. "You're gonna fuck me. Right, baby boy? Don't you want to fuck me? Don't you want to come inside me."

"Oh, God." A wave of pleasure washes hot over him. He's already come, at least a little.

He doesn't usually have this problem. It's not like this is his first time or something. It doesn't matter. With Sam, all bets are off.

Dean pants like a racehorse and just manages to get the head of his dick in before he falls apart. He shudders and moans and feels like he's going to burst into a thousand pieces.

"It's all right, baby boy. You feel so good."

Dean whines and drops himself onto Sam's back. He loves/hates Sam's new pet name. He stays there, through the aftershocks, half in and half out of him. Sam cranes his neck for a kiss.

Dean lets it happen. Then he pushes off and peels off the rubber. "Fuck."

"Hey." Sam rolls over, dick limp.

Dean shakes his head and stalks into the bathroom. He starts the shower water, hops in and pulls the curtain shut.

Standing behind Dean under the spray, Sam kisses his shoulder. "I don't think I have any fluid left in my body right now."

His shoulders are so tense, but he doesn't move away or protest while Sam soaps his back.

Dean leans his head forward and lets the water drip down his face. "That your guy that keeps calling?"

"You're my guy," Sam says before he thinks wiser of it.

He ignores Dean's silence and the barb it leaves in his chest. Sam washes him, like he had planned to do. Inwardly, he curses himself for the outburst but is grateful, at least, that Dean doesn't openly refute him.

Sam scrubs Dean's hair, his neck, down and under both of his arms. Dean laughs and juts out his hips at that. Sam smiles and kisses his cheek over his shoulder. He washes his chest and slathers his cock.

Sam's fingers search over something strange under his scrotum. "Dean, what is this?"

While Sam assumes he already knows, he slips to his knees to have a look and be sure.

"Smooth." Dean slicks back Sam's hair. "I'm fast. I'm not that fast."

Sam's fingers remain in the same spot so he can properly examine.

Dean nudges his hand to the side and touches the bump himself. "What the hell is that?"

He widens his stance and leans forward as if he could see his own perineum.

Sam says, "Let me look."

"What the fuck?" Dean stands slightly more upright. "What the fuck, Sam?"

Sam confirms his suspicion. "Okay. Listen. Don't freak out."

"What the fuck?" Dean bends over and tries to look again.

"You have a tick."

"Aw, fuck." With his arms flailing, he stumbles backward out of the shower.

The shower curtain rips noisily from the rod. It envelopes Dean from head to toe as he careens wildly to the floor, still shouting. Sam shakes his head, turns off the water and watches Dean peel himself out of the vinyl. His feet slip on the tile, and he nearly falls again on his way through the door.

Sam chuckles, dries himself and wraps the towel around his waist. He steps out of the bathroom to find Dean curled in a wet, fetal ball on the bed. He peers up at Sam and moans, "How long?"

It's so adorable and pitiful; Sam almost feels sorry for him. He sits on the edge of the bed and strokes Dean's shoulder. "You're gonna be fine. You just need to let me take it off."

"Don't try to bullshit me, Sam." He sniffles. "I know people die from this shit."

Sam subdues his chuckle. "Nobody ever died from a tick bite, Dean." He raises his hips to take off his towel and dabs it gently over Dean's goosebumped skin.

Dean buries his face in the pillow.

"You might need to see a doctor, get some antibiotics, but you're going to be fine." Sam picks up the phone and calls down to the front desk for a first aid kit.

He runs his fingers carefully over Dean's scalp and behind his ears, as much to comfort him as complete the inspection. "Will you check me, too?"

Dean sits up, slightly. "There is a fucking tick on my dick, and you act like -"

"It's not a problem. Okay?" Sam runs a knuckle over his cheekbone and smiles.

He bows his head, offering himself. "Start at the top. Anything feels weird, you check it out."

It takes Dean a moment to get onto his knees and run his fingers over Sam's scalp. He closes his eyes and makes every inch of himself available.

By the time the knock comes on the door, they're both hard and writhing together on the bed. Sam clears his throat and extricates himself. He whips the towel back around himself, parts the door enough to accept the kit and say thank you.

An hour later, as Sam tucks his shirt into his pants, he says,. "You should let me take you to a doctor."

Dean shakes his head and scratches his crotch. "I'd rather die."

Dean rolls his eyes and gripes as he trudges behind Sam up the gangplank to the steamboat Aunt Polly. "Remind me to never let you pick again."

But he doesn't complain about the catfish. He moans around the first bite so loudly that Sam checks for spectators. Then he orders another filet and drinks about 4 cups of iced tea. The okra he slides to the side of his plate for Sam.

During the show, Dean shushes Sam not once but on three separate occasions. He laughs before and louder than anyone else. When the Mark Twain impersonator is finished, he walks right up to the guy and talks for nearly fifteen minutes before Twain sends Sam a glance that clearly reads: rescue me.

Sam steps up beside Dean and shakes the actor's hand. He slips away, and Sam smiles. "We dock in ten minutes. I take it you enjoyed this."

Dean shrugs. "It was okay. I pick the next thing."

"No, you don't."

His mouth falls open, but he doesn't protest.

"The family who owns this boat have something else I want to show you."

Dean wraps his arms around himself and takes deep, calming breaths.

"How high up are we?" Sam asks, closely watching how the pilot adjusts the ropes.

"'Bout fifty feet."

Dean moves to the middle of the basket just as his phone buzzes with a message from Jo.

JW: Hey. How's your weekend going?

DW: Mostly good. Crap right now. You?

JW: Bad time?

DW: Not the best. I'll see you tomorrow.

JW: K

The guy tosses another sandbag overboard. Dean flinches when he pulls the lever that sends an unholy fire belching up into the balloon.

"You should try to relax and enjoy it." Sam grins.

Dean seriously considers decking him. "This is basically a plane without the wings."

"It's nothing like a plane."

"If mankind was meant to fly, we'd have feathers."

The thing lurches. Dean bites his lip to keep from crying out. Sam, that asshole, leans over the side of the basket and waves at somebody below them.

Back on the precious ground, in the passenger seat of Sam's car, Dean scoots back and forth across the upholstery. It doesn't help. So, he has to take matters into his hands to relieve the infernal itch. He shudders just thinking of that thing sucking the blood from his ball sac. It makes Dean want to spend the rest of his life ridding the world of evil shit like that. Maybe he'll become an exterminator.

Sam smirks. "You okay over there?"

"Shut up." He hikes his foot on the dashboard to get a good angle and really digs into it. "Son of a bitch."

"You want to take a swim when we get back? Might be soothing."

"You making fun of me?"

"Not at all," Sam says, but he's fighting back laughter.

"Bitch."

Sam shakes his head. "Jerk."

Five minutes later, they pass a sign, and Dean's head snaps around to be sure he read it right. He shouts, "Pull over!"

Sam eases on the gas. "What?"

"Ah, you missed it. Now, you gotta turn around."

"What is it?"

Dean grins and rubs his hands together. "Trust me. Turn around."

Dean's eyes light up like he's entering the gates of Heaven. His mouth falls open as he gawks at the stuffed buffalo, all the many antlers and antique shotguns. It looks like the decorators have crammed in every item of kitschy cowboy paraphernalia that could possibly be mounted on the rough-hewn walls of a western themed restaurant/shooting range/karaoke bar.

Sam tries to unwrinkle his nose and returns the hostess' smile. She's dressed like Annie Oakley, complete with holster and 6-shooter. Sam scratches his jaw. The word reluctant does not cover how he feels about this place.

The second they're seated, Dean hops up and goes to chat with the bartender. Sam scoffs, assuming he's trying to wheedle his way into some alcohol. Dean returns and reports that karaoke doesn't start until 9:00.

Sam consults with his watch and his stomach sinks. That means Dean expects to stay here for at least another 90 minutes.

"I'm gonna go talk to Larry." Dean nods towards the billiards tables.

"Larry?"

Larry turns out to be the mechanical bull. Sam covers his mouth and shakes his head. When the things starts out, Dean's body undulates back and forth in a gentle roll that causes Sam to search the room before he adjusts the tight fabric over his crotch. It takes no time at all for him to swallow hard and look away from Dean's body jerking back and forth, his neck appearing on the verge of snapping like a twig.

Sam makes the mistake of peeking at other patrons whose eyes and mouths are wide in the terror. When Sam looks again, Dean's hand is in the air as he's whipped about like a rag doll. Sam holds his breath, winces and waits for the kid to go flying and crash to the mat again any moment.

Every time Dean is thrown, he bounces up with both hands raised, like he's defeated the thing. The whole bar cheers and claps - probably because Dean spends five minutes before every round beating his chest and prancing around the ring.

After the third toss, he staggers back to the table, like a drunkard with a smug grin on his face. Sam slides his root beer across the table. "30 seconds. That's probably a world record."

Dean leans in to whisper. "Judge me if you want. It helps with the itching." He winks, drains his drink and slams it on the table. "Since you're paying, let's shoot."

Sam sighs and starts to stand.

"Bring your drink." Dean sticks his nose in it. "What is this? Sprite?"

"Seltzer water. You want some?"

Dean winces as if Sam had said lighter fluid. "Jesus, Sam. You're killing me. The least you could do is drink for the both of us." He raises his hand to show off the cowboy hat stamped onto the back which prohibits him from ordering anything harder than A&W.

Sam sinks all ten of his bullets in the target's head or chest. He's been shooting since he could hold a weapon. His father saw to that.

Dean nods and huffs his approval. Then, he takes the rifle. "You know what this is?"

"Winchester 1894."

Dean's expression shows that he's impressed. It sends an inexplicable flush of pride through Sam, as if he lives to impress this kid.

Dean lines up his sight and shoots a round through every one of Sam's marks. He laughs at Sam's flustered reaction and leaves the range. "I'm going back on Larry."

Sam watches Dean swagger across the room and notices that he's not the only one doing so. This burly, thick-necked trucker type tilts his head to check out Dean's ass. It sets off a flare in Sam's chest. He inhales sharply, nodding, reminding himself that 'people are allowed to look.'

As soon as they make the announcement for karaoke, Dean slides out of the booth, grinning. He comes back with a laminated song list. "I signed you up."

"No, you didn't."

"Come on." Dean chuckles.

"Not… ever." Sam shakes his head and sips his drink.

Dean folds an entire mozzarella stick in his mouth and asks around it, "Dare me to sing Dolly Parton?"

"I'm not daring you to do anything." Sam dips up some salsa with his chip.

Dean hoots and claps for every single awful singer that takes the stage. He eats like it's the Last Supper. When they finally call 'Dean BonJovi,' his smile grows impossibly bright. He leans over. "Last chance. Any requests?"

"Don't embarrass me."

He laughs on his way up, peels the mic out of the clip and points a finger right at their waitress. "This one goes out to Sherry, y'all. Tip her extra. She's beautiful. And she's got two little kids to put through college."

Dean doesn't just sing Donna Summer's 'She Works Hard For the Money,' he prances across the stage, dancing in a way that would make Mick Jagger proud or jealous or sick to his stomach. Sam covers his face with both hands, but he can't stop smiling.

When the song ends, he's just another one of Dean's adoring fans. The kid struts back to the table, nodding at the men who clap him on the back. He winks at the women who leer like they're thinking of tossing their panties at him.

He slides into the booth across from Sam and raises his brow, awaiting critique.

"You're an exceptionally bad singer. Like, painful."

Dean throws his head back and laughs. He devours the last of his potato skins.

There are only nine people on rotation, which means an hour later, Dean is up again. His second song is a rousing massacre of Sinatra's 'My Way.' For that, he earns a standing ovation from the drunkards at the bar.

When he gets up for his third round, Sam announces, "I'm getting pretty tired."

He's also completely fed up with the muscle-head at the bar who keeps ogling Dean. The kid doesn't seem to notice or at least, he hasn't acknowledged the guy in any way. Sam can't help wondering whether he's aware and just ignoring it. If that's the case, he doesn't know how Dean can stand it. Then again, Dean doesn't exactly mind being the center of attention.

He nods. "Last one."

He climbs onto the stage and steps over the microphone stand so that it hangs between his legs. "I wanted to get my buddy up to sing with me. He's getting sleepy, so we're about to be out of here. Sammy, this one's for you."

The singing is as bad as ever, but the way he moves while he screeches Foreigner's 'Hot Blooded' gets Sam hot and makes him nervous and gives him new understanding for why Elvis infuriated people. Dean is basically fucking the microphone stand.

Sam empties his seltzer, pays their waitress and tries not to watch the mouth breather salivating over Dean's antics. More than anything, Sam wants to yank that kid from the stage and put him in a freaking burqa.

Dean takes his final bow to foot stomps, cat calls, and applause. He soaks it in and bows at the waist. Then he speaks into the microphone while looking right at Sam. "Going to use the can."

A few people laugh at the announcement. The guy at the bar doesn't wait a full two seconds before he stands and stalks toward the bathroom behind Dean.

Sam's heart beats out of his chest. He stands and moves in that direction, as well. He's so wound up that the small hand on his shoulder startles him. Apparently the look on his face startles the waitress. She jumps back. He apologizes. She apologizes. Sam looks over his shoulder in time to see the bathroom door closing.

"Your change."

"Keep it." He turns and sprints toward the bathroom, so narrowly focused that he knocks a tray of drinks out of another server's hands.

Dean doesn't even look up at the thick-necked, pro-wrestling looking mother fucker who's been watching him all night like Dean was a horse he had put his entire paycheck on. Dean's overheard people calling him Gunner all night.

Dean gives his junk one last scratch and zips up his pants. "Help you, dude?"

Gunner takes a step forward. The guy is 6'2" 250 lbs, easy. "Nobody gives a shit what you do elsewhere. We don't allow that faggotry here. I want your word that you and your 'buddy' won't come back here or we're gonna have a problem."

Dean's heart beats triple time against his ribs. "You're gonna wanna back the fuck up off me."

If the whole thing had been happening in slow motion, Dean could say he saw the sucker punch coming straight for his temple. But he didn't see it. The air changes slightly before some shit's about to go down. Dean has had enough shit go down that he has a sixth sense for it.

It's not like the Matrix or anything. He just knows it's coming and dodges. Gunner's fist barely brushes the back of Dean's head before he jabs the fucker in the throat and gouges his eyes. The Marx brothers make that shit look funny. Gunner ain't laughing.

Dean's not sticking around to ask how it feels either. He leaves the bathroom, walking fast, praying Sam is near the exit. Turns out, Sam is right outside the door, smelling like he took a beer bath, and breathing hard. Dean walks right into his wet shirt. Sam's arms close around him. "You all right?"

"Awesome. Let's go."

They are nearly out of the saloon doors when a voice behind them growls, "Chris. Stop them!"

The bouncer steps in front of Sam. He's every bit as tall and maybe twice as wide, the kind of guy you want on your defensive line - not in your face. Dean swears and looks back over his shoulder as Gunner barrels over, squinting. "This little fairy jumped me and stole my wallet."

"Ain't what happened, Chris." Dean tries to reason with the bouncer.

"How long I been coming here? Check him." Gunner puts his hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean puts Gunner on his back. Now, his heart is on overdrive, and everything else is in slow motion.

Chris makes a move, but Sam would make a pretty good blocker, too. Somebody grabs Dean and he's fighting blind as Sam takes a hit to the gut. Someone, not previously involved, jumps onto Sam's back. He staggers forward just as Dean is struck in the jaw. It stuns the hell out of him. His swing connects, though. A few guys gang up on Dean. He kicks one of them in the knee. That guy yelps and crashes forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a chair come down over Sam's shoulders. Unlike on television, it does not burst into splinters. It looks like it hurts. Sam slumps forward, but still doesn't go down. A fist connects with Dean's proud smile. He stumbles back a few steps. Hands close around his throat. A waitress cracks someone over the skull with a bottle of beer. Gasping for air, Dean kicks back, peels at the fingers on his windpipe. He steps back and knocks the person behind on him against the wall. Nothing works. His vision starts to blur.

Then, suddenly the hands are off his neck. He gulps in a breath, clutching his aching throat. Dean gets in two solid kicks to whoever is on the floor before Sam drags him out of the door.

Adrenaline rushing through him like a narcotic, Dean hangs out of the window and hollers. Sam looks nervously over his shoulders. When it's clear that Yoko can outrun whatever piece of crap Gunner's driving - especially when Sam punches it like he's doing now - Dean slaps the roof of the car and slides back into his seat. He laughs and punches Sam's arm.

Sam's brow is all wrinkled, lips pursed with worry. It would kill Dean's buzz if he let it. Heart rate slowing, he slaps his own knee. "Holy shit, man. That was awesome. You see that guy?"

"We need to talk about this," Sam says, shaking his head. "There's something about you. You attract... you attract creepy guys."

"You think that guy…" Dean jerks a thumb back towards the bar. "He was trying to fucking kill me. Are you're saying this is my fault?"

"That's not what I said." Sam's voice is low, eyes on the road, hands clutching the hell out of 10 and 2.

He's obviously shook up, but Dean's not going to let him off that easy. "That's exactly what you said."

"It's not what I meant."

"Well, then, say what the fuck you mean." And maybe Dean is still a little hyped from the fight. Maybe he's cruising for another one.

"I mean…" Sam mumbles, "I don't know what I mean."

"You think I draw too much attention to myself." Dean fills in the blank for him, body growing tenser by the second.

"Yeah."

Jody says the same thing. 'Why can't you just blend in and stop drawing attention to yourself?'

"And you think that you're one of these creepy guys I attract."

Sam shrugs. "Shoe fits."

"So, should I join a monastery and you be castrated. Or vice versa. That part isn't clear."

Sam sighs and glances at him. "I think we could both stand to examine -"

"Shut up."

His voice quakes. "...ourselves … to determine -"

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam's breath hitches. "...whether we -"

"Stop it." Dean grabs his hand. "Please. That guy was not a suitor, okay? He was just a dickhead."

Sam squints at him and then raises his hand to Dean's lip. "Look at your face."

It stings, but Dean doesn't swat him away. He grins, and that stings a little, too. It never hurts in the moment. Always after. Dean leans up on one hip and pulls the wallet from his back pocket.

"Is that …"

"Gunner, my ass. George Lambert." Dean tosses the guy's ID out of the open window.

He helps himself to the cash and flings the wallet out onto the side of the road. Sam snatches the cash from Dean and tosses that out of the driver's window. "You need anything, you come to me."

Dean turns and watches the dollar bills flutter out behind them and disappear into the darkness.

The concierge's eyes pop saucer-wide as they stumble into the lobby.

Sam leans as little weight as possible on Dean's shoulder, but accepts the support. An older woman who was checking in moves behind her husband and clutches the white pearls at her neck.

"We were mugged," Dean answers the unuttered question on all of their faces.

"Do you need an ambulance?" The woman behind the counter already has the phone in her hand.

"No!" Sam grunts, "Thank you."

"Would you like a first aid kit?"

"We already have one." Dean grins and ushers him to the elevator.

Once the door slip closed behind them, Dean looks up at Sam and slides his hair behind his ears. Sam leans back, lets his head fall against the steel wall. "Did you see that woman?"

Dean laughs bitterly. "Never had anybody look at you like that before, have you? I should have finished the fantasy for her, snatched that necklace right off her wrinkly throat."

Sam shuts his eyes, suddenly so exhausted.

"I used to run around with these Dominican kids. You should have seen the way people looked at us, like we were fucking werewolves or something."

Sam's chest heaves in and out, but he still can't catch his breath. "Should we go home? We should go home."

The tiny space seems to tilt. The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Sam takes three steps before he drops to his knees on the floor. He stares at his shaking hands. He hears Dean's voice, has never been this close to his shoes.

The next thing Sam knows, he's emerging from the other end of a tunnel, looking up into the most beautiful, moss-colored eyes.

"Dude."

Sam tries to stave off the wave of emotion by biting his already injured lip. It's like resisting the undertow. He drops his chin to his chest and sobs. "I'm sorry. I … don't know what's wrong with me."

Between his humiliation and the fresh awareness of pain flooding his body, Sam closes his eyes and wishes he could sink into the floor. Dean slides down beside him and helps him lean against the wall. He drapes an arm over Sam's shoulder, rocking gently. It's so kind and unexpected, all Sam can do is accept it and cry himself out.

When he's finally dry, he shakes his head pitifully, utterly drained.

Dean carefully uses his thumb to draw down Sam's lower eyelid. He searches as if he's medically trained to handle situations like this. "When's the last time you were in a fight?"

"I don't know." Sam sighs. "High school, I guess. Some kids got pissed after they lost. That's the only one I can remember."

Dean pats his cheek and smiles. "I once saw this kid get three teeth knocked out with a cinder block. He kept fighting until the ones that jumped him ran off. Then, he fucking collapsed, pretty much exactly the same thing and I know for a fact that his dad kicked his ass on a daily basis. Just, sometimes… At least you didn't shit yourself. Some guys do when they fight."

A woman emerges from one of the rooms and practically presses herself against the other wall to walk around Sam's outstretched legs.

"She probably just thinks you're a junkie." Dean laughs and pats Sam's chest. "Whenever you're ready, man. I can't carry your ass back to the room."

Sam manages a light chuckle. "It's the adrenaline. Side effects."

Dean nods. "Yup."

"You get off on this? 'Cause I feel like shit."

"I'm used to it." Dean shrugs. "Never had much of a crash afterward. Some do, some don't."

After a few more minutes, Dean helps Sam into their room. He retrieves the red box from beside the bed. Opening, he nods his approval and starts laying things out on the kitchenette table with a precision Sam has not yet seen him display anywhere other than on the field.

"Ok. We're going to clean you up, bandage what we can. It always looks worse than it is. Since you're a fainter, we're going to hold off on the shower."

"I'm not a fainter."

"OK, well, you fainted, which… is usually what fainters do, so..." He unpacks an alcohol pad and dabs it over Sam's eyebrows.

The fumes burn his eyes and the liquid stings cold against his cut. Sam watches Dean's face as he continues to talk and patch him up.

"I'm not judging you, man. There have been times I fucking wished I could faint. Besides, you get in a few more of these, it'll be like a trip to the zoo."

"No, thanks," Sam slurs and yawns.

"Well, you're a damn good fighter. Kicking ass with a guy on your back. Not bad." Dean chuckles. "Did you learn that military ninja shit from your dad? You got to show me some of that someday."

From the time he could walk, Sam's father had subjected him to a toddler version of basic training. It got more intense over the years and had only stopped when he went away to college. John Winchester always a said a man has to know how to defend himself. Sam had never had any interest in fighting, but he did what his dad wanted to keep the peace.

"You know how I learned how to fight?" Dean asks. "Fighting. Mostly sons of bitches who wanted to knock me out. Not for this shit. That's just ignorant."

Sam keeps quiet, listening more to the sound of Dean's voice than his actual words. Thinking back over the fight, he recalls in surprising detail. Dean's right, he had been under attack on multiple fronts, likely because of his size. What he remembers most vividly is constantly trying to keep his eyes on Dean while dealing with the onslaught. The kid brawls like a wildcat, throwing his elbows and kicking more than swinging punches.

Sam had never been so frightened in his life. It's no wonder that his adrenaline level had spiked so high and subsequently crashed so low. He hadn't been afraid for himself, though.

Even now, the idea that something much worse than a few scrapes and a busted lip could have happened to Dean rattles Sam to the bone. He shudders and curls his fingers around Dean's hip to drag him into a bruising kiss. It's as much pain as passion as the blood mingles salty-sweet between their wounded mouths.

Dean clears his throat and laughs. "Okay. You're not in pain?"

"Yeah, I am." Sam chuckles. "I just wanted to... do that."

Dean nods, smirking. "Yeah. I like you, too."

"I'm pretty far past that at this point," Sam admits, his face warming to match the heat in his chest.

The kid titters and diverts his eyes to the abrasions on Sam's hands. "How much did you drink tonight?"

With his uninjured left hand, Sam cups his face. Dean blinks a few times and finally meets his eyes. He tries for a smile that deflates the moment Sam speaks.

"I'm crazy about you."

A series of indiscernible emotions flit over Dean's face. His eyes widen, brow furrows, nose wrinkles before he finally ends in such obvious discomfort that Sam snickers lightly before he whispers, "I think, I… um, I love you."

Dean winces and backs away, though just a step. He swallows hard and takes a deep breath. "That's not what you say after a fight, man."

"Okay. I hate you?"

His guarded scowl breaks into cautious laughter. "Better."

Despite the bite of pain, a smile blossoms over Sam's cut lips as he pulls Dean close and presses their foreheads together. "I hate you, a lot."


	20. Chapter 20

**TUESDAY**

Even before Dean opens his eyes, he knows; he's used to this. To Sam, all sleep-warm and perfect, his breathing deep and steady. The bulk of Sam takes up most of the bed. Eventually, in the night, Dean overheated from long limbs furnace-hot and sprawled over him like tethers. He's balled up in the top left corner of the bed, now, but he doesn't mind.

The closest thing he's experienced to this is opening his eyes to the juvie in the bunk across the cell or the snot-nosed kid in the next cot over at the shelter. It's not even the same universe. If he's honest with himself, he's not just used to waking next to Sam; he's a little hooked.

Dean holds his breath to hear more clearly and sinks into the low rumble of Sam's chest. His hand lays heavy and hot on Dean's sternum, anchoring him to the bed, and to the moment. Dean would give anything in his power never to have to move again.

But that's not how life works. Sam's long lashes batter open. He smiles sweetly and closes them again. Dean wipes his hair to the side and inspects the bandage over his eyebrow.

They skipped brushing last night to avoid the pain. Certain of his nasty-ass morning breath, he merely touches his busted lips to the corner of Sam's mouth that isn't split. It only stings a little, but it's enough to set off a flare in his chest and make his dick twitch.

Sam groans as he rolls over to turn off the alarm that just started rippling. He sounds like an old man and Dean starts to laughs, but stops just as quickly, gripping his aching ribs.

"Feel like I got hit by a mac truck, backed over and hit again," Sam mumbles, trying not to move his lips.

"I promise you, those assholes don't feel much better." Dean licks the dry corners of his mouth before he opens and closes his jaw a few times, playing with the clicking sound it makes.

"Jesus. Look at you." Sam's fingers barely brush his cheek.

Dean winces at the slight contact. "How bad is it?"

"Not good." Sam slowly flips onto his back and hisses in a long breath. "Repeat after me. Fighting is stupid."

"Okay, Dad." Dean grins. "Whatever you say."

"You're lucky I'm sore, because I would be tickling the hell out of you right now."

Smiling tugs at his split lip, but Dean can't help it. Sam groans even more as he hoists his bruised, beaten body up off the hotel bed.

"Do we have to go back?" Dean asks, only partially joking.

He could easily show Sam how to survive on the road. It would be awesome. Just the two of them, sailing down the highway in Sam's Prius, with nowhere to go. No one to answer to.

"We can take another trip next weekend, if you want. Maybe head west." Sam smiles down at him, offering his left hand and putting an end to the reverie. "Come on, so I can get you to school on time."

Dean's fingers dance along the dashboard as if it were a piano and he was the soloist performing this concerto. When Sam chuckles, Dean glances at him and smirks, all playful and seductive. Sam considers pulling over the car and sucking him off, fat lip be damned.

"Third," he calls out the gear and Dean shifts with his left hand.

Then, he carefully tucks his palm beneath Sam's ailing right hand, lifting it to gently kiss each bruised knuckle.

Sam parks a few blocks from the school, in a residential neighborhood, across the street from a bus stop. He checks out of his window to be sure none of the people in these houses is on their way to work or picking up the newspaper. "You got plenty of time."

"This our spot?"

Sam nods. "Yeah. I think it's pretty good."

Both of their mouths are too busted up for kissing. Sam's ribs are too tender for much of anything else. Dean rubs his cheek over Sam's, nuzzling him like a foal. Sam closes his eyes and smiles as Dean whispers, "You gonna make it back in time?"

"If I haul ass." Sam nods, murmuring, too. "Want me to hold onto your stuff?"

"Yeah." Dean nips his earlobe.

"Pick you up after work?"

"After practice," Dean corrects.

"If you want."

Dean smiles. "Yeah, I want."

He starts to get out. Then he turns and steals a kiss after all. Just a light, sweet peck. He pulls away, wincing and smiling. Sam strokes beside the angry purple bruise on Dean's face and boops his nose with a fingertip. "Go on. Have a good day."

Mrs. Mosely's eyes pop wide open when Sam slides in behind his desk. "Well, it looks like Most Interesting Weekend goes to Sam Winchester."

"Good morning." He lowers his head and smiles before setting his mug on his desk.

His neighbor to the left is a timid, dark-haired woman whose name he knows, but has never addressed directly. She sits back in her chair and asks, "Are you in a fight club?"

"I don't think that's a real thing, Amy, honey." Mrs. Mosely winks at Sam. "But if you ever run into Brad Pitt, you be sure and let me know."

Sam chuckles. Amelia shrugs.

"I fell down some steps," Sam mumbles and fires up his computer.

Mrs. Mosley laughs out loud. "So, that's your story?"

"And I'm sticking to it." Sam shares a grin with her despite the painful protests of his injured mouth.

She laughs and holds up her coffee mug for a toast. "Well, whatever it is, the fact that you took off work impresses the hell out of me. First time in two years, right?"

Sam nods. He clinks his tea against her coffee. Amelia reaches out for a toast, as well.

"It wasn't that little dark haired guy, was it?"

"No," Sam answers, his good mood instantly crushed.

"Who was that, by the way? I had half a mind to call the cops that day."

Sam clears what feels like a century's worth of dust from his throat. "I don't know. Some guy."

Mrs. Mosely cocks her head. "He kept saying your name."

"Hm." Sam shrugs.

He turns on his cell phone, sees the alert for 63 new voice messages and switches it off again.

Dean bends low, checking that the boy's bathroom is empty. He leans back against the stall door, unbuckles his pants and lowers them just enough to grab his erection in his fist. He jacks himself slowly. Sam's way.

His breath catches in his throat as he strokes a little faster and slides his thumb over the tip to slick himself with pre-come.

"Aw, fuck, Sam."

He pants and groans, careful to keep the phone steady in his left hand the whole time. When he finally blows his load, shuddering and leaning his weight against the door, it makes the hinges clank noisily.

"Wish you were here." Dean grins to himself as he sends the NSFW video to Sam during work hours.

Sam's desk phone rings. Mrs. Mosely smiles over as he stands up to take the call elsewhere. He'd rather not take it at all. He'd rather toss the phone into the trashcan than answer this call. Instead, he presses the green button and says his own name by way of a greeting.

"Mr. Winchester. Hello. This is your doctor's office. We've got some test results for you."

Sam swallows hard. He walks down the hall with his shoulders huddled and an arm wrapped around his sore ribs as he prepares himself for whatever she says next.

Dean never asked for this. Not that it bothers him. It's just a little weird. At least once a week, Garth brings him a can of coke and presents it like Dean is a knight of the round table or something. All he can do is nod in awkward appreciation and hope the weirdo knocks it off eventually.

Ash claps his hands twice in quick succession. Dean can't think of a more obnoxious sound, until the jackass opens his god damned mouth. "Alright you bunch of sissies. Move your faggot asses."

A few guys grumble. Lockers slam shut. Glenn takes his sweet time lacing up his shoes. Coach has put Ash in charge of the warm-up run. As far as Dean is concerned, the best way to get this asshole to shut up is to get it done and over with.

"You shouldn't talk like that." The voice is so hushed. They could have all pretended they didn't hear it at all.

Of course, no one pretends any such thing. The locker room goes quiet enough to hear a mouse fart. And all eyes turn to Garth.

The malicious grin that spreads across Ash's face puts the Dark Knight's Joker to shame. "What'd you say?"

Garth clears his throat, but doesn't speak any louder. "In case there's a homosexual in the room."

It's like someone has sucked all the air out of the place, but it doesn't matter because no one is breathing anyway.

Ash carelessly waves an arm at all of his spectators and man, they are watching. "Only ones here are us and you. So, if you're saying I've offended your sensitive gay feelings, well, then ... you can kiss my ass. Except you'll probably enjoy it."

"I'm not gay," Garth announces it to the floor.

He is in no way, shape or form a match for Ash. Dean cannot understand why he is doing this to himself.

Ash cackles, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "Yeah. Right. We've all seen the way you look at Smith like you want to suck on his balls for breakfast."

That earns a few snickers. Someone pats Dean on the back. His eyes snap up into the laughing face of one of the receivers. Usually, he'd pretend to be amused by this sort of thing, but not when he's about to lose his lunch.

"I'm not gay, all right. But ... some people are." To his credit, Garth never looks at Dean. Not once. Not for backup. Not for anything. "As many as 4% of the population, by some estimates."

Dean has never noticed before; Garth has a slight southern accent. It's totally random that he hears it now.

"That's not a whole lot, is it? We could exterminate their asses, no problem. Unless somebody else has a problem, I think that means I can say whatever the hell I want." Ash searches the faces of his minions, but doesn't seem to find any objections.

Instead of backing down, Garth pipes up, "Black people are a minority, too. So are women."

"So, are you saying you're a pussy or a nig-"

"Alright, Ash." Dean cuts him off and steps between them.

Not because he wants to. He wants to stay all the way the hell out of it. He wouldn't mind hightailing it from the room, but the entire team is listening. This thing is about to go from 0 to 100 real quick. He shuts it down just as the coach enters the room and looks between them. "What's going on?"

"Garth here is having a coming out moment." Ash snarls. "And quite frankly, I don't think he belongs on this team anymore."

"That's not …" Garth stutters and looks more hurt than if Ash had punched him.

"What's going on here?" Coach looks directly at Dean, glare lingering longer than seems strictly necessary. Dean assumes he is assessing his injured face, like everyone else has all day.

"Nothing, Coach. We're working it out." Dean assures him.

"Then, work it out and get your asses on the track."

"Yes, sir." Dean nods and waits for the click of the door behind him.

Their teammates file out of the room. Ash eyes Garth like he's prey.

Dean sighs and looks back and forth between them. "Alright. We're going to follow the fucking rules and quit with the slurs. No slurs. Nothing that might be offensive to anybody. And we're going to assume that we don't have any gay players, because nobody has identified themselves that way. We clear?"

"Like a crystal, Cap'n." Ash smirks, still leering at the needle-neck kid.

He slams his fist into a locker and follows the rest of the team outdoors.

Dean sighs, shakes his head at Garth, hands open in question. "What was that?"

"Was it bad?" Garth screws up his funny looking face so much, Dean almost laughs out loud.

Dean claps his shoulder. "You know this shit has nothing to do with me, right?"

He's not sure why he says it. The words just spill out of his mouth. Dean is not ashamed or embarrassed, especially not about this thing with Sam. This thing with Sam is probably the best damn thing he's ever had.

So, why did he say that?

Maybe Sam's homophobia is contagious. Because that's what it is. Dean knows Sam doesn't want people to know he's gay. But Dean's not gay. He's an equal opportunity individual who happens to be getting it on with a guy these days. That's not the same as being gay.

Anyway, it's not anyone else's business. There's a difference between random strangers and the guys you play ball with. Guys you're supposed to be leading. Guys who already look up to you, whether they should or not.

Fuck Ash. Dean couldn't care less what a dickhead like Ash thinks. But for a lot of these guys, finding out their QB sucks dick would be a morale buster - even a dick as magnificent as Sam's. Not to mention what Coach would say about it. What Sam's father would say. That's a train of thought Dean refuses to board.

There's nothing wrong with keeping his private shit on the DL, for the sake of the team.

Garth narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Well, if it did, there wouldn't be a thing wrong with it," he says on his way out of the door.

"Yeah. I know that." Dean chuckles and scratches his ear. "Just scram, Harvey Milk. Jesus."

Dean waits at the bus stop where they agreed to meet. He has an ankle rested on his knee while he engages in animated conversation with a middle-aged woman in scrubs. The moment he sees Sam's car, he smiles and picks up his backpack. He waves back at the woman before climbing into the passenger's seat.

Sam doesn't even manage to get the car into gear before the kid has his fingers in Sam's hair.

"I want to kiss you, but my mouth is still fucked."

Sam chuckles and holds out his elbow to keep Dean from climbing over the center console. The nurse watches with wide eyes. Dean searches over his shoulder in the direction of Sam's gaze and sinks back into his seat.

"I'm in pain here." Sam grips his ribs. It's not completely a lie. They have been aching him all day.

Dean grips Sam's neck, coaxing him to tilt his head so he can have a better view of his black eye. "You don't feel any better?"

"I feel like somebody cracked a chair over my back and tried to beat the crap out of me. How are you holding up?" Sam quietly peels away the hand. "Will you put it in first? Been typing all day. My hand is killing me?"

Dean obliges, then leans his head back and pulls on his seat belt. "I'm just tired as fuck."

"I'm sorry I'm late. Got caught up in traffic." Sam pulls the car onto the road.

"No biggie." Dean drops his hand on Sam's thigh and just rolls his head over to ask, "There a reason you're not answering your phone?"

"Had to turn it off."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "Should I ask?"

"No."

"All right, then. How was your day?"

"Pretty typical. I did, however, get some nice news." Sam grins.

"Oh, yeah? Spill." Dean's hand slides up toward his groin.

"I'll show you, soon as we get home."

They both hear it. Home. Neither of them says corrects it.

Sam clears his throat. "How about you?"

"My day was fucking nuts."

"Yeah?" Sam comes to a full stop at the red light and turns to face Dean.

He does look pretty exhausted. The bruise on his face is almost plum-colored. Sam strokes a hand over his hair, even though his knuckles scream at him for it. Dean smiles and leans into the touch, letting his eyes fall shut. "For one thing, everyone assumed I'd been in a street fight. Had to go to the counselor for that. Then, your dad was being weird as hell. Kept looking at me funny."

Sam flinches slightly at the mention of his father. "How so?"

"I don't know." Dean shakes his head like he's trying to make sense of it himself. "You don't think he knows…"

"About us? No way." Sam shudders, queasy with just the thought of it. "God, no."

Dean shrugs. "Then, Jo asked me to homecoming."

Sam blinks. The light turns green. The car behind them honks.

"Sam." Dean nods toward the light.

Sam blinks. Cars honk and start to drive around them. Sam just sits there blinking until he's finally able to speak. "Are you...Is she your…Jo is your -"

"I don't have a fucking girlfriend, all right?" Dean rolls his eyes like it should be totally obvious.

He also probably still has those panties in his pocket.

Sam's blood rushes cold. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. "She likes you."

Dean shrugs. "I'm a likable guy."

"Have you…" The car seems to be spinning. Sam suddenly needs to lie down. "Are you sleeping with my sister?"

"No. Sam. No." Dean sighs and reaches for his hand.

Sam holds it out of his reach, desperately needing a moment to compose himself. His face and hand hurt, but he rubs the one with the other. The thought of Dean with other people makes Sam sadder than he wants to admit to himself. The idea that Dean has a girlfriend makes him miserable. Dean with his little sister is beyond Sam's ability to tolerate.

"I kissed her. Okay? Once. Before me and you ever met."

Sam drops his head into his hands, covering the emotional agony on his face. He was already in pain, so it hardly matters. He massages his forehead with his fingertips.

"You want to pull over?" Dean fidgets in his seat.

When Sam looks up, he's watching traffic out of the rear window.

He whispers so he doesn't shout, "What'd you tell her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Jo. What did you say to Jo?"

"Do you know the balls it takes to ask someone out? Jo's my friend. I told her yeah, sure. That we can go as friends." Dean shakes his head, shrugging, making this face like it's the most natural thing in the world to date a guy and the guy's sister at the same time.

Sam grinds his teeth together, his whole body shaking. "You're going to homecoming with my sister?"

"Is that a problem, Sam?"

He chokes out a laugh, feeling the first tear well in the corner of his eyes. "First time I had sex was after homecoming."

"How was it?"

"Unpleasant." Sam chokes out the answer.

"Yeah, like ice cream?" Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, I've already crossed that milestone, okay?"

"Don't fuck my sister, Dean," Sam growls - his voice deep and unfamiliar, even to his own ears.

He grips the steering wheel to keep himself from grabbing Dean or doing something else he'll only regret later.

Dean shakes his head and huffs. "Maybe you should just take me home."

"Maybe I should." Body still tense, Sam eases his foot off the brake.

Dean folds his arms over his chest and stares out of passenger side window.

'Just get home. We'll deal with this. It doesn't have to be an issue. You don't own him.' Sam floods his mind with reasons to relax.

"I'm not going to fuck Jo, okay. She's my friend," Dean spits out over his shoulder.

"What am I?" Sam doesn't mean to sound so needy, but there it is. The question he's been asking himself is floating around in the car like carbon monoxide.

"You're …" Dean shrugs and makes a sound that doesn't exactly fill Sam with confidence. It's a cross between a laugh and an exasperated sigh. "I don't like labels, man. You know that."

Sam nods.

"Can't we just ... keep having a good time without having to call it something?"

Sam nods and bites a fresh wound into his upper lip to keep from speaking his mind. To keep from screaming and cursing.

"Sam."

"No, that's fine." He tries not to tense when Dean touches his wrist.

Dean sucks his teeth and crosses his arms again. "Now, you're pissed at me."

Sam mumbles. "Not at you."

Sam has been quiet the whole ride, but he seems to have loosened up a little bit. Dean had turned up whatever classical music he was listening to and spent the rest of the drive wishing he had never even mentioned the stupid homecoming or Jo or anything else.

Sam nods a greeting to one of his neighbors at the mailbox. The old guy peers over at Dean as he leans against the wall, waiting. Sam flips through his envelopes and doesn't acknowledge the guy's curiosity or make introductions. That was to be expected, though.

Once they enter the elevator, Dean presses Sam up against the wall and grins up at him. "That guy reminded me of Grandpa Munster."

Sam smiles stiffly and lets Dean paw his crotch. "I would have introduced you, but I forgot his name."

Dean chuckles at the lie. It doesn't matter. Their thing is not about anybody else. He nips Sam's chin, kneads his balls through the fabric. "Come on, Sammy."

"Dean." Sam rolls his eyes.

"Sam. Sorry." Dean sighs and steps away, giving Sam the space he so obviously wants right now.

The elevator chimes and the doors open. Dean adjusts his backpack on his shoulder and silently follows Sam to the door to his apartment. Maybe when that's closed behind them, Sam'll relax and they can enjoy the rest of the evening.

But it doesn't happen that way.

"I'm just going to change," Sam murmurs and heads back to his room.

Dean doesn't follow him. He can respect a guy wanting to be left alone for a while. Dean blows off some steam and heads into the kitchen, thinking maybe he'll surprise Sam and cook something.

What sounds like a distressed shout comes from the back of the apartment. Dean drops the milk, leaves the fridge hanging open and rushes to see what's going on.

For a moment, he pauses at the door blinking at the scene.

Dean is not squeamish by a long shot, but he's never seen so much blood in his life. Even once he gets his wits about him, it's hard to process what he's seeing: the little dog lays limp in Sam's ex's lap while Sam cradles the unconscious, black-haired man against his chest.

And blood. Just everywhere.

Sam peers up at Dean and whispers, "Help."


	21. Chapter 21

WARNING: strongly implied child abuse

Chapter Text

The way his hands are clasped before his downturned face, Sam looks like he's in prayer. His thumbs are tucked beneath his chin, elbows rested on his thighs. Every once in a while, he looks around the room, as if he's searching for someone familiar. He sits up slowly, takes a deep breath, then, assumes that lost-in-thought position again.

When Dean reaches for his knee, Sam flinches as if a bug has landed on him. Dean shakes his head and huffs out a humorless laugh.

Sam casts his eyes to the right, bringing Dean's attention to the security guard leaning on the counter, chatting it up with the nurse in the waiting room.

"Dude. He's a rent-a-cop."

"Shh." Sam narrows his eyes, dark circles already filling around them, although they've only been waiting a few hours. "Just…"

Dean wipes his hand over his mouth and stands up. "I'm going to get a soda. You want something?"

Sam shakes his head. Just as Dean is going through the door, another nurse enters and calls out, "Sam Winchester."

Sam stands to meet her as Dean turns to watch the exchange.

"You are Mr. Novak's emergency contact."

Sam nods, arms hanging at his sides. Dean thinks of stepping closer to offer a little support, but Sam won't want that. He remains by the door.

"Do you know how we can reach his family?"

"No." Sam takes a deep breath. "I mean, they... he doesn't…"

"I understand. Is Mr. Novak your partner? I assume you're not married."

Dean's heart clenches tight at the question. Sam's eyes flick over to him. Dean looks at the floor.

"No. He's a friend."

"But he is homosexual?"

Sam's nose turns up. "You need to know that?"

The nurse turns the clipboard so he can see and points to the question.

Sam nods. "It says optional. Leave it blank. Please."

"Any recreational drugs, to the best of your knowledge?"

Sam scratches his head and heaves out a loud breath. "I don't think so. I don't know."

The nurse makes a note on her chart. "The rest, I think we have in the system. Now, there's the question of insurance?"

"I'll take care of it."

She hands Sam some paperwork to sign, but continues on to say, " We've cleaned him up, run some tests. So far as we can tell he has no external wounds. The blood must have been someone else's. Was there an altercation?" The nurse looks over her shoulder at Dean.

"No, that's... unrelated."

She turns to stare at Dean point blank. No doubt she's already made her assumptions about the situation. He gives her a little smile and leaves them to it.

They've moved Castiel from triage to room 313. He just lays there. Not covered in blood, he looks peaceful and handsome with his dark hair and pretty mouth. Dean thinks of putting a pillow over his face. Or ripping out the IV. It doesn't seem like he's hooked up to any kind of machine where he could pull the plug.

A male nurse enters the room and puts a finger to his smiling lips. "Let's see if we can let him sleep."

Dean steps back to make space for him to check Castiel's vitals. When he's done, he touches Dean's arm. "He's going to be fine."

Castiel is tucked under Sam's arm with his head rested on Sam's shoulder. Dean walks behind them in the parking lot, searching for anywhere else to lock his eyes other than the way they're huddled together, all familiarity and comfort.

As Sam opens the back door, Castiel grips his shirt tight. Sam sighs over his shoulder asking with his eyes if Dean will drive.

Dean bites his tongue and nods as Sam hands him the keys. Once he has adjusted the seats and the mirrors, he looks into the rearview. Sam has still got his arm around Castiel. He mouths the words, 'I'm sorry.'

Dean just shrugs and clears his throat. "Where to, sir?"

Sometimes it works: turning his agony into comedy. This time it just falls flat.

"Home. To my place."

While Sam helps Castiel to the guest room, Dean blows out a loud, long gust of air. He surveys the state of Sam's room. Most of the dried blood is contained to the bed, but that is a sight Dean has to hold his breath to even look at. He finally decides to roll the poor, half-stiff dog up, along with the carving knife, and all the pillows and sheets. He runs into the kitchen to get a trash bag. As he's passing by the guest room, he wills himself not to look in at them.

He fails to show the same self-control on the way back. Sam is sitting on the side of the bed, wiping Castiel's hair from his face, murmuring something. Dean's chest tightens, and he takes a step back. Sam looks up, probably alerted to Dean's presence by the rustling of the plastic in his hands. His smile looks painful like he's been crying or he's about to start. It's a private moment. He steps away to give them some peace.

Dean rolls the mess from Sam's bed into the bag. The mattress is dry, but stained burgundy all over. All he can think to do is flip it. He is tucking a sheet under the third corner when Sam whispers, "He needs a shower."

Dean stands upright to find Sam leaning against the door jamb running both hands over his face.

"You gonna... take care of that for him?"

"We lived together for six years, Dean. He has nothing I haven't already seen."

Dean shrugs and nods, gut clenching into a ball. His throat constricts, and he turns away, tucking in the sheets to occupy his hands, even as his mind slips into overdrive.

"I won't, if you don't want me to."

What Dean wants to do is shout, 'He was drunk, Sam! He killed a fucking dog! Why are you taking care of him?'

Instead, he shrugs again and flicks on the television. "I'm not your boss. Do what you gotta do, man."

"I need some sleep." Sam shakes his head and stares at the screen.

Dean points to his bedside table. "Made you some tea."

Sam gapes as though Dean had just kissed his feet. "You made me tea?"

"Yeah." Dean pretends to be rapt in the stupid show.

He watches from the corner of his eye as Sam makes his way to the mug, wraps both of his large hands around the cup and just breathes in the steam. He has a sip, and his face contorts for a split second before straightening again.

"Too strong?"

"No. It's perfect." Sam puts down the cup.

He climbs onto the bed and lays his head on Dean's chest, arm slung around his waist. Dean strokes his hair and mutes the TV. There is something that's been on his mind since the hospital. He doesn't want to ask because he already knows and hates the answer. "Is he your emergency contact, too?"

Sam nods.

"You gonna change that?"

Sam sighs and wipes a hand down his face. "You're a minor, Dean."

"I didn't mean me. I meant... just, in general."

"Yeah. You're right. I should." He lifts the hem of Dean's shirt and places a light kiss on his belly. "Thank you."

"For what?"

Sam kisses him there again. "Just being here. Being solid."

"You're welcome." It's only through years of practice that Dean manages to keep the emotion out of his voice. He isn't sure what this emotion is anyway, but it's prickly and hot, and he would hate to have to walk or lay on it.

"I thought…"

"I know." He runs his fingers through Sam's hair.

"I just…" Sam shakes his head, warm cheek pressed against Dean's skin. "I knew he wasn't stable. I was just… so selfish."

"Dude. You're allowed to break up with someone and not have them lose their shit like this. "

"It's a cry for help."

"He's fucking insane, Sam. Normal people don't… kill dogs."

Sam leans up on his elbow. "Which is why he needs help."

Dean's nostrils flare as his internal temperature starts to approach its limits. "Let's talk about something else."

Sam moves up the bed and kisses him. It's sweet and brief and stings a little bit. Dean clutches the back of his skull and plunges his tongue into Sam's mouth.

Sam pulls away and says, "I'm beat."

Dean nods and watches the 1990s Jeopardy rerun. He used to think Alex Trebek must be the smartest guy in the world. Sometimes, he wishes to himself that someone would just give him cue cards in situations like this. Yeah. Like all the times he's been laying in dog blood fighting back tears and an erection, with his boyfriend's boyfriend in the next room recovering from a .4 blood alcohol level.

"You said you had news."

"Uh… Yeah." Sam lays flat on his back and allows Dean to unbutton his shirt while he speaks. "I talked to my mom. We're going to have dinner tomorrow."

"That's awesome." Dean smiles. "Your dad, too?"

Sam huffs. "One thing at a time."

"Guess that's fair."

"I also heard from my doctor's office." He folds both arms behind his head and licks his lips.

"Yeah?"

Sam nods and smirks. "Clean as a whistle."

"Now, that is fucking awesome news." He leans forward to plunder the hell out of Sam's mouth. To Hell with the pain.

Sam holds him back and brings a finger to his lips. "Shh."

Dean groans and rolls onto his back. "Does he have to stay here? I mean… I know it's not my place, but... Is there nowhere else he can go?"

"No. There isn't really." Sam lifts Dean's hand to his mouth and kisses his palm. "Let's get a little sleep."

Dean awakens sprawled across Sam's cushy bed. Even with the extra space, it's nowhere near as comfortable without Sam in it. It's after 10:00 AM. He's late no matter what he does, so Dean luxuriates: stretches out, scratches his balls and strokes his wood a little. He takes a long whiff of Sam's pillow and smiles. If he could bottle up that scent and take it with him...

When he comes from the shower into the kitchen, he's whistling the theme song from The Love Boat. He stops cold the moment he sees Castiel sitting at the kitchen table eating scrambled eggs.

Castiel peers up at him for a moment, with weary, blood-shot eyes. Sam's face tenses as he looks back and forth between them. Before Dean can decipher what he's thinking, Castiel leaps from his stool, knocking it to the tile behind him. His plate shatters, and his hands wrap around Dean's throat.

Gasping for air, Dean stumbles backward a few steps. As he careens to his back on the floor, he notices how perfectly straight and even Castiel's gritted teeth are. He closes his fists around the lunatic's wrists as Sam wraps his arms around Castiel's chest. Sam tosses the maniac into the corner by the stove and towers over him, breathing hard. Still, Castiel strains and struggles to get around him. He leaps at Sam's chest, screeching like an unhinged monkey trying to break from a cage.

Breathing through his open mouth, Dean just sits on the floor - ass on the living room carpet, feet on the kitchen tile - and watches.

Castiel picks up the frying pan and hurls it, eggs and all, past Sam. Dean flinches although it doesn't come close to hitting him. Sam glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. He grabs two fistfuls of Castiel's shirt and lifts him to his tiptoes. "Look at me."

Dean lets out a breath and climbs to his feet. He folds his arms and leans back against the wall.

Castiel snarls again and swats at Sam's hands. He snaps his teeth like a starved zombie. When that doesn't work, he butts his forehead against Sam's nose so loud that Dean can almost feel it crack. Sam grips his face and steps back. "God damn it, Cas."

Castiel snakes free and chases Dean into the living room. Dean hurdles over the sofa. Cas follows him, diving over the back. For a moment, they stand toe to toe. Castiel pants. "He's mine."

"Dude. You're fucking nuts."

Castiel lunges and Dean jabs him in the mouth. The crazy man reels on his feet, but doesn't go down. He snatches up a small statue from a table and slams it hard across Dean's skull. Dean stumbles and slumps against the wall.

"Castiel," Sam says his name like he's handing down commandments.

Castiel's arm is raised in the air, preparing another blow. His chest heaves as he looks between Sam and Dean.

"Put. It. Down," Sam says, eyes dark and vicious.

He doesn't comply. He doesn't brain Dean either. His moment of hesitation gives Sam enough time to cross the room and pluck the bronze elephant from his hands. Sam takes Dean's face in his hands. "Are you alright?"

Dean blinks up at him, head screaming. Sam's face morphs from concern to fury. He turns to face Castiel, seeming twice as tall and broad. "You don't touch him. You understand me?"

Castiel whines and strains toward Dean again. Sam grips his shoulders and gives him a light shake. "Stop it. I mean it. Stop, now. Or you're out."

Castiel collapses against Sam, weeping with his hands on his shoulders. "He's the sphinx, isn't he? You lied to me. You lied, Sammy. You told me you weren't fucking him."

"I didn't lie. We… Things changed."

Castiel's head drops forward, shaking from side to side as if he refuses to believe it. Then, he looks up, steel-blue eyes hurling daggers at Dean. "I'm going to gut him like a fish. I'm going to peel him. You hear that, you little whore? I'm going to -"

"Castiel, you listen to me." Sam shifts so that he stands between Castiel and Dean. "You don't touch him. You don't threaten him. As a matter of fact, you don't talk to him. You stay away from him. And if you so much as look at him wrong, ever again, I will end you."

Sam doesn't talk for the entire ride. Not a single word. Doesn't want to hear any music. Once they're parked, he plants a somber kiss on Dean's temple. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine." Dean grins, as if to prove it. He knocks on his forehead. "Solid steel."

"I'm going to deal with this. I just need a little time, okay?"

Dean nods.

"I'll see you tonight?"

"Same Bat-everything."

Sam smiles a little. Dean looks at the clock on Sam's console. His lunch period is underway. A good way to start the school day.

When he strolls onto campus, he finds about a dozen students on the front lawn, led by none other than JoAnna Winchester. They're all marching in a line, hoisting shoddy, handmade signs above their heads. Hers is standard college ruled, rainbow striped with the words Hate-Free Zone in black bubble letters.

"Jo. What am I looking at here?"

"What does it look like?"

Considering the abundance of rainbows and pink, Dean answers, "It looks like a fricking pride march."

"That would be amazing." She points to a stack of handmade signs. "You should stand with us."

He chuckles. "Yeah. I don't think so."

She blocks his way, shoving her poster in his chest. "This affects you, too."

"No," Dean assures. "It doesn't. I don't know why y'all are even doing this."

"You didn't hear?" She turns her nose up in self-righteous disgust. "Ash beat the crap out of Garth."

Dean looks aside, blood running cold. "That fucker."

"And called him a … you know what. I didn't even know he was gay?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Does your dad know?"

"Everybody knows. And nobody is doing a goddamn thing about it. 'Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.'"

Dean shakes his head. "Jesus Christ."

Sam stares out of the restaurant window. Mrs. Mosely nudges him with her elbow. "Sam, are you ready to order?"

He looks up into the waitress' blue-lidded eyes and blinks back down at the menu.

"I think he needs a minute."

Amelia's eyes are wide and sympathetic. Dick Roman has his nose buried in the beer menu.

"Sam, you sure you're okay, honey?"

"Yeah." He puts on a fake smile. "Didn't get a lot of sleep."

Coach steps into the locker room and barks, "Smith."

Dean looks up from lacing his cleats. He hasn't dealt with Ash yet and isn't sure how to approach it. Ash didn't rat when Dean hulked out on him in the cafeteria, and technically, it's not his business. Ash was picking on Garth before any of this gay crap. Probably before Dean ever showed up in this town. Dean had tried to have Garth's back. What else is he supposed to do?

"Yes, sir?"

"Close the door."

Dean complies and awaits further instruction.

"JoAnna asked you to homecoming," the coach says without looking up from whatever he's writing.

Although it doesn't sound like a question, Dean confirms. "Yes, sir."

"That's not going to happen."

"Sir?" He blinks rapidly.

"You need to keep away from her." When the Coach finally does look up, it's like he's peering through Dean, like he was a ghost.

For a second, Dean is too surprised to respond. His mind reels over all the reasons for the coach to be this pissed. The only thing he can think of, he's pretty sure Coach Winchester would be strangling him if he knew. "I already told her…"

"I'll deal with Jo. You just do as I say."

Dean's mouth opens and closes again. It's the best possible outcome, as far as he's concerned, but it'll be a drag to disappoint Jo.

"You hear me, Smith?"

"Yes, sir."

Sam rises to his feet the instant he sees the waiter leading them across the restaurant. He hadn't expected his mother to bring his little sister, but he maintains his smile for both of them. Sam bows to kiss his mother's cheek and she wraps her arms all the way around him. He chuckles awkwardly, looking around the room at the curious patrons watching what should be a private reunion.

At the house, with his father right there, they had only exchanged a brief greeting before Sam was on his way out of the door again. Here, in this restaurant, surrounded by strangers, he finally allows himself to close his eyes and shut them out so he can cling to his mother. He sinks into her embrace until Jo says, "This guy is waiting."

Sam clears his throat, pulls out the chair for his mom and accepts his menu from the waiter. He offers Jo an uncertain smile, remarking to himself how pretty she is. An aching swell of jealousy fills his chest, and he laughs uncomfortably. He shifts his knife a few centimeters to the left, for no reason at all.

Once they place their orders, his mom claims his hand, tenderly stroking the back. "I'm so sorry, Sam. I thought for sure your father would…"

He squeezes her small fingers, not intending to become so aware of her ice-cold wedding ring. "Mom, it's okay. Everything's fine."

"I'm just so glad you called." Using her free hand, she dabs at the corners of her eyes with the cloth napkin.

"Me, too. I don't know why it took so long."

Even after the food arrives, she seems reluctant to let him go. As Sam reaches for his fork, his mother bows her head. Jo follows suit. After a moment of hesitation, Sam does the same.

He can't remember the last time he's even uttered the word 'God.' Then, he does remember: "Oh my God. Don't stop" and like almost everything does these days, it reminds him of Dean. Sam suppresses a lewd smile and listens to his mother pray for health, happiness, and a blessed meal.

Dinner passes in relative silence. None of them seems willing to break the spell with real questions. It's all appreciative hums for the food and "Would you pass the salt, please?"

Jo hasn't spoken a word since they arrived. She hardly even looks up from her plate. She was in first grade when Sam left for college and ten years old the last time he felt like her brother. He has no idea what to say to her. Jo's smile isn't very convincing. Sam can only assume his attempt at courtesy is just as wan.

The longer he looks at her, the more he sees that all grown up, Jo is not cute or pretty. She's gorgeous. She is every straight guy's dream with her blonde hair, big brown doe eyes, and petite build. Her lips glisten pink, no doubt with some fruity flavor that drives Dean crazy.

Dean likes girls; there's no way he isn't into JoAnna. He's already kissed her. He has to want more. And of course, she's into him. Dean is… irresistible. And that, right there, is the problem. Jo must find him every bit as hot and sweet and disarming and unnerving as Sam does.

If what Dean says is true, he and Jo had a thing, even before Sam and Dean met. That's a little under four weeks ago. That alone is difficult to believe; Sam feels like he's known Dean all his 's more, he can't stop asking himself the question: 'So what do they have now?'

Of course, Dean is telling the truth. He wouldn't just look Sam in the face and lie, would he?

Sam doesn't realize he's staring until his mother says his name. He smiles over at her, waiting for her to repeat the question.

"Did you want to say something to Jo?"

"Uh … How's school?"

"Good." Jo pushes the last of her broccoli around her plate with her fork.

"You, uh..." Sam shuts his eyes and tries to resist. The words tumble out in spite of his best efforts. "Do you... do you have a boyfriend?"

The minute the question escapes his mouth, he knows it's not something you ask a stranger. His little sister is, for all intents and purposes, precisely that. Her cheeks go a pretty shade of pink to match her lipstick. Dean must love to see her like this. Sam sniffs and looks away.

Jo winces to their mother. "Do I have to tell him?"

"JoAnna," Mary whispers. "Maybe he can help. Offer some big brotherly advice."

Sam has more difficulty painting on the smile this time.

"No. I don't," Jo says through clenched teeth, her face softening with every word that follows. "There's a guy I like, and he's... I think he likes me. Sometimes."

Her mother pats her hand and says, "His name is Dean."

If there was even a shred of doubt in his mind before, it's demolished now. They both look to him like he's some sort of guru, because they can't hear his heart slamming against his ribs. If the guru ever felt this sick, he'd throw himself off the side of the mountain.

"What does he say? Dean." Sam smiles, feeling a strange elation at saying Dean's name out loud in front of them, as if just that sound is a secret he's been dying to scream from the rooftop.

Jo shrugs. "At first, he was totally into me. Then he wasn't. Then he kind of was. Then he wasn't." She turns away from Sam and wipes at the corner of her eye, just like their mom had done.

Their mother rubs her shoulder. "He's a nice boy. A little rough around the edges, but clearly special."

Sam can't help but smile and nod at that description. His mother seems to know Dean well.

"I told Jo to let him come to her. You have to be patient and let him be the hunter."

Jo rolls her eyes. "And I'm what? The prey? I don't want it to be like that. I don't want to play hard to get. That's 1950s advice. Isn't it?" She looks up at Sam, caramel eyes wet.

Sam has a long drink of his water. He crunches the ice between his teeth to stall for time. This is a chance to start being a good brother again. Of course, he wants to give Jo solid advice and for her to be happy and to get what she wants. He also wants to send her running in the opposite direction of the boy he loves. "I guess ... it depends on the guy."

"If it was you…"

Sam takes a deep breath and tells the God's honest truth. "If it was me and there was this gorgeous, smart girl who was interested in me, I wouldn't give her mixed signals. That's a ... jerk thing to do. He sounds like a…"

"He's perfect." Jo corrects him, jaw set.

Sam doesn't argue because she's right.

"If you were me. What would you do? How would you get him to like you?"

Sam huffs and maps the quickest route to the exit. "It's not like there's a button you can push to make a guy like you."

"Isn't there, though?" Her head tilts as she meets his eyes.

Mary's eyes widen. "JoAnna. If your father were here…"

"But he's not. Sam. I'm asking you." Joana looks up to her brother, lip trembling, brown eyes glassy with unshed tears. "What should I do?"

Dean picks up the brown paper bag from the passenger's seat so that he can climb in. He shuts the door behind him and opens the bag so he can stick his nose into it. With a huge smile, he asks, "This for me?"

Sam nods.

"Italian?"

Sam confirms.

"Awesome." Dean starts to dig in to pull out a container.

"Don't eat in the car… please."

Dean stares at him for a moment. Eventually, he sucks his teeth. The bag crinkles as he folds it back down. "How was dinner?"

"Remarkably unpleasant." Sam pulls back onto the road. "My sister is in love with you."

Dean huffs as if he wants to refute it. "She's not -"

"Oh, no. She definitely is." Sam watches traffic out of his mirror to keep from seeing Dean's expression. "If you take her to homecoming -"

"Your dad already put the kibosh on that."

At that, Sam searches his face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm not taking her, so you can relax." Dean takes a huge bite out of a piece of garlic bread he's fished from the bag despite Sam's request.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," he answers, with his mouth full.

"You don't think your friend…"

"Who? Garth? No." Dean shakes his head. "Anyway, whatever. Problem solved."

"Are you still going?"

Dean yawns and takes another huge bite. "Bought the damn ticket. Might as well."

Sam sighs, thinking back to his first homecoming and Cara Jones who could not take no for an answer. And Kevin Sherwood, who Sam would have given anything just to dance with. "I wish I could…"

"Yeah, well, you can't." Dean swallows his bread.

"I hate that," Sam mutters out of his window, letting the cool wind soothe the sting behind his nose.

"It is what it is." Dean opens the bag looking for more food. "I take it Castiel is still at your place."

Sam nods. He hadn't been sure how or when he was going to broach this subject. The air already feels foul between them. "There's something I need to tell you, Dean."

"I don't like the sound of that."

Sam swallows and takes a deep breath. "I don't like it either."

"Then, can you just not tell me?"

"No," Sam says. "I need to tell you. Because I need you to understand and I need you to be there when it happens."

The acidic stink of nail polish poisons the air in Sam's apartment. Dean enters, a few feet behind Sam, with his head low and the bag of cold food hanging from his arm. His damn appetite is shot anyway.

Castiel peeks up from the sofa, where he's sitting with his legs curled up like a pretzel so that he can paint his toenails purple. "Oh my God. Look at it pout."

"Castiel," Sam grumbles a quiet warning.

"You already told him?" Castiel's asks and sucks his teeth. "No fair. I wanted to see the look on that pretty little face."

"Dean, would you excuse us for a moment?"

Dean doesn't budge as Sam kneels in front of the sofa, right in Castiel's face. "I told you…"

Castiel rolls his eyes like a bratty child. "I'm not talking to him. I was talking to you." He paints a purple stripe on Sam's nose.

Sam wipes it away with the back of his hand. "I'm trying to help you, Cas. I'm trying to -"

"Have your cake, and a little ice cream and a pouty little cherry." He sticks out his lower lip in what Dean assumes is meant to mock his expression, then makes an exaggerated whimper.

Dean rolls back his shoulders and stands up straight.

"I bet that mouth feels like magic on your cock, doesn't it, Sammy?" He snarls up at Dean like some kind of animal.

Sam looks over his shoulder and shakes his head that Dean is still standing there. "Please. Can you just… I'll be there in a minute."

"What? Is he too young to hear the word cock? I really doubt that. If you can suck it, you can say it, right, sweetheart? You know what he looks like to me?" Castiel squints, as if he's trying to look right through Dean.

"Castiel, shut up," Sam says, as if he has any authority over this nutjob.

"A rent boy. Doesn't he? Pretty little face. Tight little body. I know a lot of daddies who would pay top dollar-"

It happens so fast Dean doesn't catch it. He only hears the loud smack and sees the way Castiel's jaw drops before his neatly manicured hand raises to his cheek.

"I'm sorry." Sam starts to touch his face, but Castiel shrinks away.

He leaves his polish open to stench up the place. As he passes by Dean, he looks him over, top to bottom. Dean's skin burns from the evil glare. His guts churn with the desire to beat this guy's ass into the ground.

Still holding his face, Castiel stomps from the room like a child sent to bed without supper. Sam stands, runs both hands through his hair and sighs. "I should…"

As he's about to follow Castiel, Dean holds a hand to his chest. He shudders to ask, "Am I a rent boy to you?"

Sam takes Dean's face between his hands. "No."

Dean pushes him away and retreats into the kitchen. He stands in the open door of the fridge, letting the cold air wash over him.

"Dean?"

Dean shakes his head, silently begging Sam to leave him alone, just for a moment.

He eats a few hands full of cold cuts, has a few apples and a glass of water. He sits on the floor in the kitchen for a while, texting nonsense with Jo and Garth.

Once he finally gets over himself enough to come to the bedroom, Sam is naked beneath a sheet. Dean's eyes are drawn to the outline of his dick, always a threat and a promise. Sam's eyes are closed, hands beneath his head. Sprigs of dark hair jut out from his armpit. The fur on his chest is curled and coarse. This Dean knows from twirling his fingers in it, but only when he's sure Sam is asleep.

Dean stands in the doorway, watching Sam not sleep. When Sam sleeps, his breath is slow and deep. Dean's mouth twitches, a flicker of a smile, when he thinks how similar Sam is to a bear in hibernation, when he sleeps. Always on his stomach, his massive, nude body taking up most of the space, his legs and arms spread out all over the mattress and anchoring Dean to the bed.

Sam opens his eyes, and he reaches out a hand. "Come here."

Without speaking, Dean slips out of everything but his boxers, and leaves his clothes in a heap beside the bed. Sam pats his chest in an invitation for Dean to climb aboard. Dean walks around to the other side of the bed and sits down. He lays with arms folded over his chest, making sure that no part of him makes contact with Sam's body.

They lay like that for a while. Sam breathes in and lets out long, stressed sounding sighs. He moves slightly and presses his knee to Dean's leg. Dean tenses and moves aside, maintaining the space between them.

"I have to help him, and this is the best way."

"Why do you have to help him?" Dean asks plainly. He doesn't whine, although most of him wants to.

Sam nuzzles behind his ear. "Because he needs help and he doesn't have anyone else."

Dean shoves him away.

"Are you going to be pissed at me forever?"

"I'm not pissed at you." Dean tries out Sam's line. He turns away and whispers, "I'm pissed at you."

Sam presses a hand to his cheek and draws him close enough to kiss the other one. "I know it sounds crazy, but I'm doing this for us. For you and me."

"Doesn't sound crazy," Dean says. "Sounds like bullshit."

"It's not. I promise. And it's temporary." Sam nibbles his ear. "Okay?"

Dean nods, hoping it will get Sam to shut up about it already.

"Let me see if I can make you not-pissed at me." Sam kisses him so tenderly that Dean's eyes flutter shut so that he can focus on the feather-light pressure of Sam's lips.

The warm sensation of it spreads south as Sam burrows his face against Dean's neck, kissing, and licking, before he sucks - hard. Dean's hand flies to the back of Sam's neck. "Shit."

"Are you going to forgive me?"

"Sam. It's…" Dean shakes his head and stares at the ceiling. "I don't like it, but it's not my fucking business."

"It is." Sam presses his soft lips to Dean's shoulder. "It's for us." He licks a broad stripe over one of his nipples, then the other. "So that I can be with you." His teeth nip lightly at Dean's hip. "Only you."

Dean's body buzzes like a tuning fork as Sam grips the base of his dick. He kisses the head and smiles. Then he takes the whole thing slow and smooth, until his lower lip is pressed against Dean's ball sack. Dean sits upright and grips Sam's head with both hands. He gasps, vision already blurring.

Sam pulls nearly off, and curls his thick tongue around the tip before he dives all the way down again. Dean groans and swipes a tear from Sam's cheek. He shudders, watching the spittle dripping from the corners of Sam's mouth.

Sam pulls off and pumps with his hand, taking a moment to lick his lips. "I love your cock so much."

Dean grins and strokes his hair. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You're good at sucking it."

Sam smiles like Dean just awarded him some prize. As if to prove he's earned it, he swallows Dean again. He moans and bobs his head up and down, like a fucking professional. Square jaw slack, pretty mouth warm and perfect, his lips stiffen, cheeks hollow. Dean calls out, "Sweet Jesus."

Sam keeps his palm around Dean's shaft as he comes up to ask, "Is it good?"

"So fucking good."

Sam doesn't just respond to praise; he rises to it. He strains toward it like a flower seeking the sun. He sucks brutally sweet for what could be hours until he delivers Dean right to the Pearly fucking Gates. Then he pulls away, fist tight around the base of his dick.

"Fuck, Sam. Why?" Dean doesn't even care that he's whining.

"I want to ride you."

Still short of breath, Dean says, "Dude. You're too big for that shit."

"I want to try."

"It's not going to fucking work. You're too big."

Sam frowns like a huge, little kid and goes back to work. He rolls Dean's balls between his long fingers. Nibbles at his shaft. Rubs the inside of his thighs half-raw with his two-day stubble.

He lifts Dean's legs and bends to lick behind his knees. Dean would laugh if he could catch his breath. It's weird. It shouldn't be hot. Sam smiles and licks until Dean is wide-eyed and trembling, mouth hanging open in awe. Sam takes his ankles in both hands and opens his legs wide. Dean has held many a girl in this position, grinning down just like Sam is doing. He leans up on his elbows, preparing to protest, when Sam leans forward again.

Dean drops onto his back in time for Sam to pin his feet above either side of his head. His damp knees are pressed to his ringing ears just as Sam slurps a wet, hot stripe up his crack.

"Holy shit, Sam."

Dean had wondered about that. What it felt like - what all the fuss was about. It's not really something you ask someone to do - until now, when he gasps, "Do that again."

Sam smiles and obliges. He laps over Dean's hole, up to his sack and sucks in first one nut, then the other. He jerks Dean's dick slowly and returns to treating his asshole like a lollipop.

"Holy fuck, that's good."

"You like it?"

"Ha. Oh. Ah. Yeah."

Sam's tongue swipes wet circles around his hole, and as if that isn't hot enough, he spits right onto the center. The burst of cool air and warm moisture send Dean jumping half out of his burning skin. "Fuck, yeah."

Sam spits on him again and then, his finger is right. There.

Dean tenses, hips instinctively move up and away.

Sam freezes, holding firm to the backs of Dean's thighs. He looks from Dean's hole to his face and back again, like he's waiting for Dean to say something. Like he's waiting for a go-ahead.

Dean holds his breath - not wanting Sam to do it, unwilling to stop him.

There's no question in Dean's mind that Castiel is down to be penetrated. As a matter of fact, he's sure that fairy takes Sam's dick like a champ. Maybe that's why Sam still wants him and why Dean's not enough.

Dean can bottom. Not like he hasn't done it before. He never explicitly told Sam that he didn't want to get fucked. It's true, but he's never said it, and he would do it for Sam. He would take Sam's dick, in a heartbeat. Does he want to? No. But he would.

He doesn't want Sam to see him that way, which he knows is insane, if Sam wants it, but sane is not exactly how he's feeling right now. Right now, his ass is in the air and Sam is looking at him like he's a baby bird that fell out of its nest.

"You okay?"

Dean nods. "You want to…"

"Not until you beg me for it." Sam releases his legs.

Dean sighs, relief washing over him. "Ain't gonna happen."

"And that's fine too."

Dean tries to sit up. Sam stops him with one of those huge paws in the center of his chest. "I still want to ride you."

As he crawls up the bed to get the lube, Dean nips at his ribs. When Sam settles back over him, Dean watches the huge, gentle hand slick him up. He breathes through his mouth and lets the heat in his dick diffuse all over his body. He runs his own hands over Sam's flanks as he leans forward, reaches behind himself and produces a black plastic cone.

"What the…" A fresh flash of heat sparks when Dean realizes what he's seeing.

Sam's smile is ultraviolet as he licks his lips and leans over the side of the bed to drop the plug quietly to the floor. "I wanted to be ready for you."

Dean's brain scrambles for a reply and comes up blank. Sam kisses whatever stupid look he's making right off of his face or engraves it there permanently. Dean can't tell. He's holding his breath as Sam hovers over him, insanely long legs splayed, knees damn near Dean's ears. He reaches back, holds Dean's dick in place and tries to skewer himself on it.

Up to this point, Dean has been dutifully lying still, looking back and forth between Sam's face and his massive, fully erect and always captivating dick. It points clear up at the ceiling. Dean can't help but make a grab at it.

"Stop." Sam swats him, his expression more like someone taking a test, than getting it on.

Dean doesn't even try to contain his laughter. Sam frowns down at him. "Suggestions?"

"You are way too fucking big for this."

Sam purses his lips in concentration. His knees drop to the mattress, and he leans forward. Dean takes advantage of the new position to lean up and bite one of Sam's nipples.

"Dean!"

"Sorry." No way he's sorry.

"Just be still." Sam hooks a forearm around Dean's neck.

Dean takes over holding his own dick, because if there's one thing he can do right, it's that. "I got it, okay. You just…"

Sam lowers himself until Dean exhales at the resistance at his tip. This man is too heavy to lean on anyone this way and Dean struggles for each lungful of breath. Still, he bites his lip and lets Sam control his descent.

His mouth is wide open, eyes shut, muscles in his face clenched. Dean stretches up to kiss him. Sam opens his eyes, as if he's surprised to find someone below him. He smiles a little and kisses Dean a lot. He resurfaces the inside of Dean's mouth with his tongue, all the while sinking inch by torturous inch. Dean fists the sheets and forbids his hips to buck.

Sam's tight heat around his dick, Sam's heart banging against his chest, the pressure of his lips, the slide of his tongue: it all sets off fireworks in Dean's chest. He gasps and struggles for control.

Once he's buried balls deep, Sam sits up and grins like his horse just came in first. The change in angle tightens the pressure, and they both cry out. Dean grits his teeth and focuses all of his energy on not moving. Not losing his shit, for once.

Sam's hands smooth down his chest. "Good?"

Dean just nods, appreciating air for the first time in his life.

Sam starts to lift himself, but halts when Dean grabs his thighs and wheezes, "Wait."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just…" Dean exhales and tries to clear his head. He does not want to get there before Sam again. Trying to think of something that will cool him down, he comes up with, "So, when's the big day?"

"Not now," Sam pants.

"I know, but when?"

"I don't want to talk about this now."

'That's fair.'

Sam rises up on his knees and impales himself again. Dean's back lifts from the bed, mouth wide in agonized pleasure. "Holy shit, Sam."

Sam does it again, shifting and rolling his hips. He leans forward, bracing himself on the mattress. Then, he lets loose: grinding, bouncing and churning like he's riding on Larry, that fucking mechanical bull. He groans loud, low and so dirty, Dean wants to bottle up the fucking sound. Also, he wants him to be quiet. Castiel is in the next room, for God's sake.

"Whew. Whoa, cowboy. Slow down." He runs his palms up and down Sam's thighs, trying to get him to relax.

"Mmm." Sam thrashes his head back and forth. "No way. I love this."

"I'm not gonna… " And that's that. Sam keeps riding him like a bronco and Dean's body spasms before he tenses, grabbing hold of Sam's hips, spurts right up his tight ass.

As always, Sam never gets mad at him for coming so fast. He just sits there, breathing hard through his smiling mouth, stroking that amazing dick of his. "God, you're so gorgeous when you come."

Dean gives himself a few moments to recover before he takes the Beast from Sam and jacks him quickly - the right way. He swipes at the slit and uses the pre-come as lube, twisting his wrist and jerking even faster. "Come on, Sam. I want you to shoot all over me."

That seems to do something for Sam. He's groaning and moaning louder than ever now, asshole tightening around Dean's oversensitive dick.

Meanwhile, Dean's mouth hadn't really run those words by his brain before he was spitting them out. He never wants anybody's jizz on him. He would actually put that on his turnoff list right up there with gagging.

And yet, he'd said it and Sam's obviously into it. His back is arched tight as a bow, leaning back, supporting himself with both hands on Dean's shins - too fucking beautiful to be real. Dean runs a hand from his sternum over his taut muscles to his navel, and it doesn't matter what Sam wants to do. If Sam wants to hang him out of a window and fuck him upside down, there isn't really any chance of Dean saying no.

Sam goes rigid and shouts as he shoots. The first glob lands warm on Dean's chest, and that's not so bad. Then he turns into a howling sprinkler and come splashes all over Dean's face, sputtering, "Oh my God. Fucking God, Dean."

Dean's eyes shut just in time. He can't help but chuckle. "Impressive."

He wipes away the spunk on his upper lip, while Sam uses his thumbs to clear Dean's eyelids.

"Are you okay?" He's still winded.

Dean smiles. "I'm fine. You trying to blind me?"

Sam laughs, breathlessly. "That was so hot." He leans down to kiss him, and Dean sighs as he slips from Sam's heat.

"Don't move." Sam climbs off the bed.

He hops up and sprints from the room. They had burned through the unscented baby wipes that usually wait in his bedside table. Dean snickers a little. Then, he remembers that they have a guest. Then, he remembers that HE is the guest.

He shuts his eyes against the hardening in his gut. His veins feel full of cooling lava, leaving his insides charred and black.

As soon as Sam returns, Dean asks, "So?"

Sam winces, but nods already knowing the question. "I've got to find Ruby first."

He sits on the side of the bed and makes a ritual of wiping Dean with the soft, warm wash cloth. Dean smiles while Sam takes care of his face. The rag smells faintly of lavender, like the goat milk soap in Sam's bathroom.

Sam sponges down Dean's chest before cleaning his limp dick. He places the rag on his night stand, snuggles in beside Dean and buries his face in his neck. Once he's good and cozy, he mumbles against his skin. "I don't know if the court does it or if I have to hire a PI or what? She won't hesitate to sign it, just, I have no idea where she is. Her parents were in Florida last time we talked, so I guess I'll start there."

Dean pats the hand on his chest. "Dude, you know she's on Facebook, right?"

"What?" Sam leans up and twists his face in confusion, like Dean is speaking French.

"How have you not looked on Facebook?"

"I'm not really into that."

Dean considers braining the guy right then and there. "Come on, Sam. They got fucking Easter Island tribesman on there. How are you not on Facebook?"

Sam turns away. "I was for a little while. Castiel hacked into my account a few years ago and it just … I don't have a lot of friends anyway. It's not really my thing."

When Dean shivers, he realizes just how much warmth had been coming from Sam's, literally, overly hot body. The guy is like a furnace. Dean wiggles under the blanket. "Yeah, well, your ex is on there. She's pretty hot."

"You've seen her?" Sam rolls over to face him again, hazel eyes wide.

Dean instantly goes quiet. He hadn't planned to tell Sam he had checked her out. It had just been that thing: that irrational terror that Sam had ever wanted someone else more than him. Dean knows it's nuts. That didn't stop him from spending an hour on her profile.

"Show me," Sam demands, sitting up in bed.

"You're not pissed?"

Rather than answer, Sam hops out of bed again and runs, buck naked, out of the room. He returns with his laptop and watches Dean navigate to Facebook. He hadn't tried to Friend Ruby or anything that weird. He'd just spent an embarrassing amount of time checking out her pictures and judging her lame posts.

Sam watches like he's never heard of the Internet before. Dean plants the computer on his lap, gets up and pulls a pair of Sam's sweatpants from his middle drawer. He ties the drawstring and still, they sag so low that he has to stop every few seconds to pull them up. But Dean doesn't feel like putting on his jeans, and it calms the nervous flutter in his chest, just a little bit, to be wearing Sam's clothing. "Going to the kitchen. You want anything?"

Sam shakes his head without even looking up from the screen.

Dean nods and makes his way down the hall. He can't stand to stay in the room, watching Sam's reactions to seeing his FUCKING WIFE for the first time in half a decade. No light shines from under the guest door, so he assumes Castiel managed to sleep through Sam's animal noises.

That's something. If Dean never sees that guy's face again, it'll be too soon.

He decides to break up some of the tension in his body and take his mind off this whole stupid Ruby/Castiel thing by singing. The first thing that comes to his mind is:

Soy un perdedor  
I'm a loser, baby  
So why don't you kill me?

It's not exactly heart lifting, but it's pretty much how he feels.

Dean is spreading mayonnaise on whole wheat bread when a prickly chin presses against the nape of his neck. Something about the angle feels wrong, but it isn't until ice-cold hands snake around his chest that Dean spins on his heels, holding the butter knife like a violent oath. "Dude. Don't fuck with me."

Castiel smiles like a rat. "Hohoho. Aren't you a little ruffian? About what I figured. I can see why Sammy thinks that's fun." He reaches around and tries to lodge his fingers in Dean's crack.

Castiel laughs when Dean shoves him away. "Still sore?"

He's not wearing a stitch of clothes and Dean makes a point of not checking him out. He keeps his eyes glued to the guy's annoyingly pretty face. Castiel leans with one elbow on the counter, grins and runs the same finger he tried stick down Dean's pants over his bread then sticks it in his mouth. "You may not know this - then, again, you might. In a pinch, mayo is a pretty decent lube. How much do you have to use, kitten, to fit all of Sam up in you?" He smiles. "That cock is a miracle, am I right?"

Dean curls his knife tighter in his grip, but doesn't move for certainty that he'd kill Castiel if he did.

"Why don't you make me a sandwich, sphinx?" Castiel brushes his cold fingers down Dean's arm.

Dean pushes him again, even as the goose bumps pop out over his skin. "Make your own fucking sandwich."

"So rude." Castiel pouts and steals a slice of Dean's meat. "Didn't you ever go to kindergarten? You have to learn how to share. I'm sharing, aren't I? Sharing my Sammy with you? Being way too fucking generous…" His tone changes instantly from light and playful to dark and threatening. "What are you really after? Hm? His money? Is that what you want?"

"I'm telling you right now. Back away from me, man." Every muscle in Dean's body is coiled and ready to spring.

"Did you know Sam hasn't had a television in over five years? Is that your candy? They don't have HBO at the shelter, do they?" Castiel narrows his eyes.

"Fuck you."

"Who wouldn't spread their legs for a little Game of Thrones?" Castiel takes a step back and cocks his head like he's studying a lizard at the zoo. "You're wondering how I know? Your clothes are clean. Teeth brushed. Tail all bushy, coat shiny. Only a few bruises."

Dean swats away the hand that tries to touch his face.

"But take the urchin out of the street and what do you have? A dirty little street kid, in clean clothes, with that same hungry-hungry look on his sad, little face." Castiel plucks Dean in the center of his forehead.

It's the last straw. In one fluid motion, Dean hooks his elbow around Castiel's neck and holds the tip of the butter knife at his temple. This is as close as he's ever come to killing someone and the most he's ever wanted to. Dean's heart pounds in his ears, and he presses the steel against pale skin, wondering what it will feel like to jam it in and watch this asshole die.

The second he hears Sam approaching, he shoves Castiel to the floor. The guy quickly scrambles to his feet before Sam enters the kitchen. He steps back and lowers his gaze, as if he's contemplating Dean's bare feet.

Sam glances back and forth between them, like an angry parent deciding which of his naughty children to scold first. "Is he talking to you?"

Dean shakes his head, holding the knife behind his back.

"Castiel, go to sleep." Sam tosses over his shoulder.

"Yes, master." Castiel bows like he's on stage and slinks from the room.

Sam rolls his eyes and holds out his palm. "You coming to bed?"

"Yeah." Dean drops the plate in the sink and tosses the sandwich, appetite obliterated.

Sam walks behind Dean, massaging his shoulders, kissing them.

"Night, lovebirds," Castiel chirps as they pass the guest room.

Once they're back in bed, Dean scratches behind his ear. "He's just cool now?"

"Castiel is a very… capricious person."

"That's what you like?" Dean flinches, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Sam rolls over on top of him. "I like you."

Dean forces a small smile. "Why does he call me a sphinx? Isn't that that thing in Egypt?"

Sam closes his eyes and sighs. "It's a stupid joke."

Dean chews on his lip before he asks, "You two are telling jokes about me?"

"No. Cas…" Sam's brow furrows, but he gives up trying to explain. "Look, what he said, before … Have you ever…"

"I'm not talking about that, Sam." Without knowing exactly what he was going to ask, Dean shuts it down. "You got all kinds of shit you don't want to talk about. So do I."

"You can ask me anything." Sam's gaze hardens as if he's bracing himself for a barrage of questions.

At the moment, Dean only has one. "How the hell did you wind up with this guy?" His throat threatens to close around the words.

Sam huffs. "Short version? He was my wife's dance instructor." It takes a long time for him to gather the rest of the statement. "He wasn't like this at first."

"They never are." Dean rubs his eye in a way he hopes looks more sleepy than sad. "That's the kind of guy you like? You know, Fruity Pebbles."

Sam shrugs. "I like a lot of different things."

"But, you just couldn't resist him? Had to have it?" Dean says lightly, doing his best to keep the torment out of his voice.

"No. I never went after any guy, ever. Cas is the first guy who ever came on to me." Sam rolls onto his side and drops his face onto Dean's shoulder. He wraps his arm around him and strokes his back until his hand lands, warm and heavy at the crest of his ass. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?"

For a second, Dean thinks Sam means he's lucky to be here, like this, in Sam's arms. He already fucking well knows that, but he's about to argue to save face, when it occurs to him, that it's the kind of thing he would say, not Sam. "What do you mean?"

"Your mother gives you a hard time about me - and she probably should. But she knows, you know. You don't have to hide."

Dean nudges Sam's hair aside, so there's a patch of forehead for him to kiss. "You don't have to hide either."

He scoffs at that. "When did you come out to her?"

Dean shrugs. "We're not all weird about sex like most people. It's just a thing, you know?"

"So, why didn't you tell her … what happened." Sam looks up with this apologetic expression in his eyes, like he's atoning for all assholes everywhere.

Dean tenses without intending to. "That's different. I was a little kid. He was her fucking boyfriend. I didn't want her to think I ... it's not like I hopped up in his lap, you know?"

"Do you want to tell me about it?" Sam whispers against his cheek.

Dean shakes his head. He's never telling anybody that shit as long as he lives.

"Go get me a beer, kid."

Dean rolled his eyes. He was watching the damn game, too. But it was just a commercial, so he scooted and did what Marc said.

His mother's latest boyfriend was far from the worst. He never hit either one of them. Just that afternoon, he had spent a good ten minutes behind their apartment tossing the ratty baseball Dean had found to him while he worked his way through a cigarette.

The old lady across the hall had been hanging up her clothes at the time. She smiled and said something about Marc being proud when his son was in the World Series. Marc hadn't even corrected her. He had just smiled and ruffled Dean's hair. So, it wasn't a hardship getting the guy a beer. He was okay.

Dean heard it from the kitchen. The song on this commercial that he loved. He couldn't help dancing his way back to the sofa. He laughed when he realized Marc was watching him and played it up a little, waving his arms up and down like snakes, swinging his hips like this lady he had seen with a fruit basket on her head. It was hilarious.

Marc took his bottle and watched Dean with this weird look on his face. When the commercial was over, he said, "Come here."

Jody had a thing for military guys. Marc was no exception. His voice was this low, commanding rumble. In this particular instance, though, it was quieter than usual. Tender in a way Dean hadn't heard him speak before. "Do that again."

"What?" Dean stood before him, pulling at the fraying hem of his t-shirt.

"Your little dance."

Dean snickered and made a face. "I don't remember what I did anymore."

"Yeah, you do." Marc nodded. "It was good. Come on. I'll give you some."

Dean did a less enthusiastic version of his moves; it wasn't the same without the music. As promised, Marc cracked open his bottle and offered Dean a swig. Dean reached for the bottle, but Marc held it out of reach, insisting he hold it while Dean drank. Marc's other hand was big and clammy on the back of Dean's neck, supporting him as he tipped his head back for his first ever pull of beer.

He let the awful, bitter stuff dribble back into the bottle and then wiped off his tongue with the back of his hand. Marc laughed.

"How do you drink that?"

"It'll grow on you."

Dean shook his head and moved to sit back down. Marc stopped him with one hand on his hip. Dean stared at the veins popping out of his muscley arms.

"You want to touch?"

He shook his head.

"Yeah, you do." Marc teased him, took a drink and flexed his bicep in front of Dean's face. "Go on.

Dean pressed one of the veins with his pointer finger. It squashed down and popped up every time he did that. Then he curled his hand around the thick muscle. Marc grinned. "God, you're pretty. You know that?"

Dean turned up his nose. "I'm not pretty. Girls are pretty."

"You're pretty as any girl I ever saw." Marc took his chin between his thumb and forefinger, hand stinking of stale cigarette.

Something happened in Dean's stomach at the compliment and the contact. Something like riding a roller coaster. He couldn't decide whether he liked it or hated it.

Marc twisted and tied up Dean's shirt, so it was like the little bras the Cowboy cheerleaders wore. He poked the cold mouth of his bottle into Dean's belly button and laughed when he gasped.

Dean looked down at his new outfit and shook his head. "Still not a girl."

"No?" Marc suddenly looked so disappointed. "How we gonna fix that?"

Dean tried again to take his seat on the other end of the sofa.

"Sit down here."

Dean looked where Marc was pointing and decided it couldn't hurt anything to sit on the floor between Marc's legs, as long as he could go back to watching the game. Marc drank his beer, absentmindedly stroking his fingers through Dean's hair. He pressed his warm hand against Dean's ear and encouraged him to rest his cheek against his even warmer thigh.

Jody was never all that affectionate. It felt weird and kind of wonderful to have someone touching him, even if he was being treated like a dog.

On the next commercial, Marc spoke in that soft version of his voice again. "You know what we could do? We could pretend. You like to pretend, don't you? Always acting like you're an astronaut or something."

Dean nodded slightly. His eyes had started to slip closed during the last quarter.

"You can be the little girl, and I'll be the daddy. That sound like fun?"

It didn't sound like fun. It sounded stupid. Dean just shrugged.

"It's gonna be fun. Watch. You'll be my little girl, and you're going to do everything I say, right?"

Dean kept his eyes on the TV, still sleepy, but also with this odd tightening feeling in his stomach.

"What's your name gonna be? Hm." Marc's hand was on his neck. "What name do you like?"

There was this girl in Dean's class who was already sprouting boobs. She was a walking miracle, as far as he was concerned. Dean said her name because he was always thinking about her anyway.

"I like that." Marc stroked his hair back from his face. "Such a good girl, Kimmy."

He kept saying it. The whole time. Good girl, Kim. That's my good girl.

"Come on, Kimmy. Eat up. It's good for you. What, you don't believe me? Lots of protein. Make you grow big and strong, like me." Marc wiped a finger down Dean's nose and stuck it in his mouth, dripping with that awful stuff that had come out of him. "There you go. That's my good girl."

The next time his mom worked late, Dean had just stayed in his room, drawing cars. There was a knock on his door, but no lock. He didn't move or say anything when Marc came into the room. He didn't even budge when a plastic shopping bag landed on his bed.

"You don't want to see what I got you?"

A crisp, white baseball, still in the packaging, never been touched. Dean didn't even realize his hand was moving towards it until Marc snatched it up. "Uh-uh. Girls don't play baseball."

He watched while Dean put on the headband, the pink skirt, and the white ruffle socks. He needed help with the training bra, and Marc painted on the lipstick. Then Marc had picked him up like a princess and carried him to the bigger bedroom he shared with Jody. He stood him up in front of the only mirror in the apartment.

Dean stared at his reflection, but it couldn't be himself he was looking at. It was an entirely different person. A girl. A pretty one.

"Good girl," Marc chanted. "Good girl, Kim." Squirted that cold stuff on him. "So wet for me." "Won't hurt" But it did. Hurt bad."You can take it, big girl." Hot hands on her back. Nasty ashtray smell stinking up the air until Kim buried her face in the warm puddle on her pillow.

Most of the time, Dean doesn't even think about it. It was like something he had seen in a movie. Like it had happened to someone else.

"I told you before, my mom had a boyfriend who messed with me. I don't know what else you want me to say."

Sam nods. "Something similar happened to Cas."

"I'm not like him."

"No, you're not. I just thought you should know, you're not the only person who ever went through…"

Dean glares at Sam for a moment. He means well; he's just clueless. "If Jody had been there, she would have said I asked for it."

"Why would she ever say that? How could she think that? You were a little kid." Sam cradles Dean's head in his hand, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb.

Dean wants to shove him away, make him stop, except that it feels amazing.

"Because I…" Dean clears his throat, wishing he could flee from the room. "A lot of people think I'm like that. I kind of am, I guess."

"You mean, you like attention?" That thumb trails back and forth, slow and hypnotic. "There's nothing wrong with that."

Dean's body flushes warm at the kindness in Sam's eyes. "Doesn't really match, though. Me and you."

"I disagree." Sam kisses him. "I think we're like night and day."

Dean chuckles. "Is that why you never want anyone to see us together. Because you hate the attention?"

"I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

"Nobody's going to…" Dean stops before he finishes the statement he knows is untrue.

"Yeah. It's already happened once."

"That? That was awesome." Dean grins, feeling lighter just thinking about the fight.

"I hated it. Every second of it." Sam's eyes darken. "And I don't want anything like it to happen again."

"Bring on the haters. I like to brawl."

"I noticed." He smiles softly, tracing Dean's eyebrow with the tip of his finger.

"It's like ball, you know. Without the rules. Cathartic."

Sam's eyes flick up slightly.

"You like that? Vocab gets you hot?" Dean can't help but laugh at the latest of Sam's kinks.

"You know how I feel about a smart jock." Sam leans close to his ear. "You know, you're kind of perfect."

Dean closes his eyes tight before anything can escape. In case he fails, he rolls over to face the wall. "Just kind of?"

Sam laughs and kisses his shoulder.

Just as he's starting to relax, something occurs to him. "You gonna be mad if I don't want to be there?"

"I need you to be there." Sam presses up against him, slotting his soft dick against Dean's ass. "I need to be able to look into your incredible eyes and know that you know that I'm yours."

Dean's body tingles everywhere Sam touches him.

"Because I am. You know that, right?"

It sounds good, but Dean saw how Sam was with Castiel. He's known from the beginning that his days with Sam are numbered. He's too tired to even argue about it. "You think he's going to wear a white dress?"

Sam laughs. "Wouldn't surprise me, actually."

"Bet he'd look pretty hot, too."

Sam's chuckle sounds as much like relief as amusement. Dean can hear it as the laughter trails off, that Sam is beat, too and about to fall asleep.

Dean's eyes open and he confirms that there is a knock on the door in real life, not just in his dream. He groans and starts to get up. Sam stills him with a hand on his chest and looks at his phone.

Dean yawns and grumbles, "Time is it?"

"Two."

In the dim light, Dean watches Sam step into that pair of dark blue silk pajama pants. "Who do you think it is?"

"Neighbors? I don't know." Sam shrugs and goes to answer the door.

Since he's awake anyway, Dean drags himself out of bed and to the can. He grins as he hides behind the door so that he can pounce on Sam when he gets back.

They both flash their badges. The shorter man speaks, "I'm Officer Riley. This is Martez. You the homeowner?"

"Yes, sir," Sam answers, certain his heart is audible outside of his body.

"Mind if we come in?"

"'Course." Sam steps aside, making space for them to enter and wills himself not to glance down the hall towards his bedroom.

One officer peers into the dark living room. Every slight, calculated movement they make winds up his nerves more tightly.

"Anyone else home?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mind if we talk to them?"

Sam clears his throat. "Everyone's asleep."

"Won't be just a second."

There couldn't possibly be a worse moment for Dean to lean his head out of Sam's door. He's shirtless in a pair of the black briefs Sam bought him for his birthday. The rest of Sam's life flashing before him sounds precisely like the slamming of prison doors.

"Hey, buddy," the shorter officer, Riley, says with an insidiously false smile.

Dean shakes his head. "Wrong guy."

Officer Martez is an olive-skinned man, approximately Dean's height, but of stockier build. He speaks softly and clearly makes an effort not to seem imposing. "What's your name?"

"Mike," Dean says without seeming to think about it.

"How old are you, Mike?"

"18." He lies so effortlessly; Sam's eyebrows shoot up inadvertently.

"Got any ID?"

"Nope." Dean juts his chin toward the ceiling, and Sam wishes he would act slightly less defiant.

Riley looks him over. "Well, looks like we crashed a slumber party. What you boys been up to?"

Sam doesn't open his dry mouth for fear he'll be up to his knees in vomit if he does.

Dean answers, "Slumbering," and steps up beside Sam. He's close enough to touch, but thank God, he doesn't.

"So, let me guess. Cousins?" Riley grins and gestures between them. "Of the kissing variety."

"That's none of your fucking business." Dean shoots off.

Sam closes his eyes and covers his own mouth with his hand.

"You're awful defensive there, Mike." Riley stalks menacingly close.

Even though he's a few inches shorter than Dean, everyone in the room is aware of the government-issue Glock 22 on his hip.

"Pretty banged up there, too, huh?" Martez points to Sam's knuckles. "This guy been knocking you around?"

"No." Dean nearly shouts. "Hell, no. If you guys don't have a warrant or something-"

"We got an anonymous tip," Riley counters, chest poked out.

"Tip about what?" Dean asks.

"That your mute friend here might be sodomizing a minor."

Sam's knees nearly go out from under him. He coughs out an anguished laugh.

Dean sneers. "Well, I don't blame you for rushing over here. You catch something like that, it ought to keep you in spank material for weeks, little man."

Riley steps into Dean's space, eyes narrowed, palm hovering over his taser. Martez calls his name like he's calming an attack dog.

"Yeah, Riley." Dean spits out his name. "You better step off before your girlfriend has to watch you get your little ass kicked."

Sam has seen Dean fight. He knows that the kid sees it coming. Even for Sam, it's like it happens in slow motion. Dean takes the punch to the gut, doubling over with a breathy groan. Before he can recover, Riley has shoved him onto his face on the floor. He digs a knee into the back of one of Dean's legs and jerks Dean's arms behind his back to strap on plastic restraints.

"Hey! Hey! That's not necessary." Operating on instinct rather than judgment, Sam moves to intervene.

"Back the fuck up!" Martez yells and draws his weapon.

Sam's heart slams against his chest and his hands raise of their own accord. The officer keeps his gun trained on his chest. Dean spits blood onto the floor as Riley jostles him toward the door.

"Wait. Wait." Sam looks frantically between them. "Can I get his clothes?"

Martez escorts Sam to his bedroom. Out of nerves and force of habit, Sam starts to fold Dean's jeans.

"Just hand 'em over." The officer snaps, clearly agitated. "I hope for your sake his age checks out, or we will be back."

"You know, you don't have to be such a dick." The Spanish-looking cop says leading Dean to the patrol car.

"I think we've already established that I like dick."

The guy shakes his head. "We're out here to protect your ass." Or maybe he's middle eastern. Dean doesn't give a fuck.

"My ass is fine."

"So, what's the deal?" At least the cop takes off the cuffs before he opens the back seat and hands Dean his clothes. "That guy pick you up somewhere, offer you some money, kick you around a little bit? You tell us what's up and we can get somebody to bring him in tonight?"

Dean shakes his head. There's no point trying to convince anybody of anything. Everyone just makes their own assumptions anyway. "Just a guy who saw me sleeping on a bench and offered me a place."

"Modern day Good Samaritan?" The other pig, Riley, had wanted to arrest Dean for disorderly conduct. Asshole. He sounds less than convinced.

"Yeah," Dean says. "A Samaritan."

"No strings, Pinoke?" Martez glances over his shoulder.

"No fucking strings." Dean sighs. "Just a nice guy."

"So, why are you half naked?" Riley asks.

"Because we were fucking. The last time I checked, that not illegal."

"Ten minutes across the border it is," the other one says. For flavor, he adds, "little faggot."

"Riley, chill," Martez says. "In Missouri, legality depends on how old you are."

"I already told you."

"Yeah, we'll see," Riley growls.

Martez looks back at Dean. "Why were you sleeping on a bench? Trouble at home?"

Dean stares out of the window, counting streetlamps to keep himself cool. "Just needed a fucking break from my mom."

Sam stands in the doorway, body shaking, reeling on his feet, paralyzed by uncertainty about what to do. When he finally manages to step back into his apartment, Cas peeks out of the door to the guest room.

"You did this?"

Cas purses his lips. "He's not good for you."

"My God." Sam runs his hands down his face.

Castiel tries to touch him. He yanks his arm away to keep from striking out.

"He would let you fuck him and then slit your throat in the night to steal your watch. I have known kids like that, Sam. You're not safe with him."

Speechless, Sam shakes his head, goes into his room and shuts the door. It takes him two minutes to dress, grab his keys and leave.

When they arrive at the station, Martez sends Dean to dress in the bathroom. Aware that the next step is fingerprinting and attempts to confirm his ID, he climbs onto the trashcan and slips out of the window. It's a two story drop and his left ankle buckles when he lands. Dean swears and hobbles down the alley. Thank God for Sam thinking of his clothes and the fact that his cell is still in his back pocket.

Jody answers on the first ring. "Dean?"

"Hey."

"Where are you?" Her voice remains soft, as if she's afraid to scare him off.

"Um. Hold up. Let me get to the intersection."

The phone beeps to let him know there's an incoming call. That makes the ninth attempt from Sam. He ignores it and keeps moving.

"You're all right?"

"I might have a pig tail, but otherwise fine. If you could hurry up, that'd be awesome." Dean looks over his shoulder in the direction of the police station.

"Stay outside and keep moving. Circle the block. I'll call when I'm close."

"Not my first rodeo," he says, but he's glad as hell to hear her voice. "I'm sticking closer to the station than they'd expect, so seriously, hurry up."

"Smart."

He tells her where he is and that if he gets the sense that someone's coming after him, he'll check back in with new coordinates. Chances are, though, Riley and Martez have bigger fish to fry than some big-mouthed kid. Most important thing is that he's thrown them off Sam's scent.

He limps around the block, keeping his eyes peeled in the dark. The phone buzzes in his pocket, again. He sighs and answers it. "Dude. You need to stop calling this number. They check your phone records and … fuck."

Dean wipes his mouth, not even wanting to think about what kind of trail they've left with their text and call history alone. He wonders whether it would help anything to burn the phones. "We need to stop talking."

"Dean, are you in there?"

"In where?" Dean looks up the street, toward the station at a gray Prius slowly rolling past.

Checking to be sure that no other cars are on the road, he waves his hands frantically. Sam pulls over, relief plain on his face. "Get in."

"Are you fucking crazy? What are you doing here?" Dean checks for motion at the police station.

"I couldn't just leave you… They let you go?"

"Sam, those pigs wanted to book you. You're on their fucking radar now." Dean backs up from his window and runs his hand through his hair. "You being here is extremely stupid."

There's a muffled sound down the alley. Probably a cat jumping on a box, but Dean turns to get a quick look anyway.

"You taking that heat was stupid," Sam says.

"I know what the fuck I'm doing. I know how to deal with cops. When's the last time you were arrested?"

Sam doesn't have an answer for that one.

"Exactly. Now, get the fuck out of here." Dean points up the street, in the opposite direction of the police station. "Jody's coming."

"Let me drive you home."

Dean shakes his head. "No. We need to…Just… Go home, okay?" He leans into the passenger window and whisper-shouts. "I'm not trying to get you fucking locked up, okay? Now, would you please, go home."

"You don't even have on any shoes."

"Cops have 'em." Unfortunately, they were the good shoes he had gotten from Sam's dad, not the worn-out Chucks that pinched his toes, but oh, well. It was like one of those foxes chewing off its foot to escape a trap: a small sacrifice for freedom.

"Get in the car," Sam says. "Wait with me, until your mom comes."

"No." Dean pushes back off the car and swallows hard, aware that the party's over and that this is the last goodbye. "No. Get out of here."


	22. Chapter 22

Sam stares up at his building, seeing nothing but red. His knuckles blanch from his death grip on the steering wheel. The lights are on in his apartment, but he can't go inside now. Maybe he should never go back because he's not sure what he'll do the next time he sees Castiel. This is the first time he has ever thought himself to be capable of murder.

That question Dean asked plays on repeat in Sam's head: "How did you meet this guy?"

"Short version? He was Ruby's dance instructor."

The long version began six years ago, with Sam naked in bed beside his beautiful wife.

He let her kiss him. Tucked his thigh between her legs and let her writhe like a snake, using his body for her pleasure. His hand rested lightly on the small of her back. Finally, she sighed and stilled. Sam wiped her dark hair out of her face and apologized, again.

In the beginning, he could close his eyes, let his body react to her touch and give her what she needed. As time went on, it became more challenging to get himself there, no matter who or what he imagined. Sam closed his eyes and shook his head.

"It's okay. Sam." She kissed him. "You're under a lot of stress right now. I know that."

That much was true. Sam had done little more than train and sleep since they'd relocated to Pittsburgh. He could see why Ruby would blame this on that.

"What we need," she said, "is something we do for fun, just for us. "

"Wow."

Sam's face warmed at the word being used to describe him; his crotch responded to the source. In the wall length mirrors, he tracked the fluid movements of the dark-haired man who skulked around his body, appraising Sam as if he were on an auction block.

"Ru-baby, you have been holding out. Then again, if I had something like this at home I'd chain it to the bed and never, ever let him see the light of day."

Surprisingly, Sam didn't have a problem with being ogled like he was a piece of meat. In fact, he loved it, and that was the problem. His heart raced, even as he struggled to keep his breath even. Ruby and the other women laughed at the spectacle their dance teacher was creating, but they might as well have melted through the hardwood floor for as much as Sam cared. As long as he stood still, the focus would remain on his face and not on the stiffy straining against the zipper of his jeans. He gave a tortured chuckle and let the man complete his orbit.

Sam did his best to ignore the moon-white skin, hair like a starless night and the flawless ass that had been poured into purple leather pants. He bit his cheek, allowed his bicep to be squeezed, and felt his face flush as the man raised his brow in approval. Sam's lips parted, and he promptly snapped them shut.

Ruby grinned like it was prime time television. "Sam, this is Castiel Novak."

Sam had already figured that this was the Cas of whom his wife so often spoke. Apparently, Ruby got everything from fashion tips to sex advice from her dance instructor. He was even surprisingly knowledgeable about women's health issues. Also, according to Ruby, Castiel Novak had performed on Broadway until a torn meniscus had put him out of commission. Now he was teaching ballet, tap, modern and ballroom dancing for couples.

Ruby talked about him so much, Sam felt like he already knew the man.

"Pleasure."

Castiel answered Sam's outstretched hand with an unabashed look at his crotch. "I just bet."

Ruby laughed and rested her hand on Sam's arm. "I told you, he's harmless."

"Talking about me? I love it." Castiel smiled at Ruby and offered Sam a limp wristed handshake that was more stereotypically feminine than his wife's.

Sam cleared his throat and ignored the heat rising in his chest. It was harder to overlook the way Cas wet his lips, or how his steel blue eyes watched Sam's mouth. "Ruby tells us you play catch for a living."

Sam chuckled. "Something like that." He nodded more than was necessary, aware how stupid he must look, but unable to stop himself.

"Have you ever taken a dance class, Sammy? Some athletes swear by it."

"No, I never have." Sam shook his head, scratched the back of his neck and began searching for the nearest exit.

"That's all right. I'm plenty experienced for the both of us." Castiel's smirk should have been illegal. The acts it brought to Sam's mind were prohibited in parts of the world.

Five minutes into it, Sam began to understand how excruciating this class would be. The hour would mostly consist of trying not to watch Castiel while simultaneously imitating his every movement. Keeping his eyes on the female instructor wouldn't work because Sam was supposed to be mimicking Cas' steps.

Fat chance of that, too. Sam had always danced like there was a pole up his ass. That fact had never bothered him. He'd have been just as happy to sit in the corner, jerking off while Castiel tapped his foot, scratched his head, or checked his watch. The guy was twenty different kinds of sexy, no matter what he was doing.

Finally, Sam excused himself to the bathroom and shook his head at the sweaty freak in the mirror.

Water.

Castiel moved like water.

Fuck.

Sam splashed water on his face, zipped down his fly and stepped in front of the urinal.

He had never had true sympathy for the gazelles in those nature documentaries before the moment Castiel stepped into that bathroom. He glanced over his shoulder, body instantly overheated. He shook off his cock and started to put himself away. Before he had zipped his fly, Castiel shoved up against him, forcing Sam to brace himself on the wall to avoid falling forward into his piss.

"I read an article about you. The squeaky clean All-American."

For some reason, Sam kept his back turned and allowed his chest to be pawed, as if refusing to face this predator would make him less real.

"Do I make you curious, Sammy?" The cocky smile saturated Castiel's voice. "You think I can dirty you up?"

"No." Sam barely managed to breathe the word as Castiel grabbed his rapidly responding cock.

"Oh, my. You're proportionate, aren't you?" Castiel rubbed his face between Sam's shoulder blades and began to jerk him at a relentless pace.

"What are you…" Sam gasped and fought for some semblance of control.

"Know how I know you're interested, Sam?"

Sam shook his head, burning despite the cold tile beneath his hands and cheek. He was in abler hands than he'd ever been. He wasn't even sure he could handle himself that well. Wave after wave of white hot pleasure coursed through him as Castiel reduced him to a quaking, whimpering mess.

"A strictly straight boy would have kicked my ass the moment I looked at his cock."

Sam's knees weakened. He panted for air as Castiel mercilessly stripped his shaft.

"That good, Sammy? Huh? Yeah. It's good, isn't it? Look at you, being so still for me. What a good boy you are."

Sam cried out and splattered his release against the urinal wall. He crumbled forward, eyes shielded by his forearm, while he struggled to regain his composure. Then he turned to face Castiel, even if he was still unable to meet the man's eyes.

Castiel stepped away and hummed as he licked Sam's slick from his fingers. He snickered and left Sam alone to deal with himself.

Sam's head spun, pulse raced, and he strongly considered spending the remaining half hour hiding out in the bathroom. But if Ruby asked, he could just blame his ruddy face and elevated pulse on the dancing. So, after an additional five minutes of pulling himself together, he practiced a smile in the mirror and returned to the studio.

Sam had hardly walked back into the studio when Castiel called him forward to demonstrate the kick-ball-chain step they had learned. Sam declined and lowered his heating face. Ruby, however, pushed him forward while the rest of the class clapped with what they would call encouragement, but basically amounted to peer pressure. Once again, the women did a poor job hiding laughter behind their hands. All the men raised their brows and looked relieved not to be the one on display.

Castiel wrapped his hands around Sam's hips and swayed him side to side. "You have to relax. That's the whole secret. You let go and let your body do what it's meant to do." Castiel pushed gently as if he was just limbering Sam's hips instead of sending his body temperature into feverish territory. "Just like that. Good. Do you recognize this man, Ruby?"

Ruby laughed and clapped with the rest of the class, as if Cas had turned water to wine instead of merely getting a football player to dance. But Sam knew, better than any of them, that this man was capable of miracles and wonders. Instinctively, he also knew that if he followed this man, he would end his days upside on a cross.

Sam winced as he pushed Ruby's hair from her forehead. Whenever he had seen those guys in the movies, sneaking out to cheat on their wives, he'd looked down his nose and known he could never be that kind of sleazeball. As much as the thought curdled his blood, there wasn't a force in heaven or hell that could have changed his trajectory. He was a man compelled.

The mat outside of Castiel's apartment read 'FUCK OFF!' Sam turned his back to the door, scrubbed his hands over his face, and walked back down the hall, cursing himself the entire way.

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing inside of Castiel's apartment leering at the way his slim, angular body moved in a midnight blue, Chinese silk robe. Sam could only identify the music coming through the speakers as opera. The voices soared and caressed some nerve he never knew he possessed. Until then, he had always listened to whatever was popular without caring who any of the bands were. Somehow, this music seeped through his skin and liquified his bones.

Castiel brought him a tumbler of bourbon, grinned and disappeared down a hallway. Less than a minute later, his voice rang out across the apartment and over the music. "You just gonna stand there with your mouth hanging open?"

As much as he could have used the liquid courage, Sam left the drink on the coffee table. When he reached the door Castiel had entered, the older man turned and held out his hand. "Come here. Feel how soft this is."

It was more like floating than walking, as Sam crossed the threshold into Castiel's room. He rubbed the smooth fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Castiel pinched his chin, and Sam's breath caught in his throat like he'd never been touched in his life before.

"Such a handsome boy, Sam. You ever play doctor with little Davey across the street?"

Sam shook his head.

"Never had a secret boyfriend?"

Sam swallowed. The shaking of his head was voluntary. He had no control over the way the rest of his body trembled.

"No?" Castiel popped the first button on his shirt. "You ever want to?"

Sam inhaled until he thought his lungs would burst.

A smile spread over Castiel's face as he opened the next button, slowly, with both hands. "So, what do you want to do to me?"

Sam couldn't have spoken, even if he'd known what to say.

"Do you want to fuck me, Sam?"

He nodded, reduced to little more than a speechless, dry mouth, and a weeping cock.

Castiel brought Sam's sweaty palms to the sash of his robe. Obeying the silent command to untie it earned him a word of praise that swelled his pride and his dick even more.

With an impossibly elegant roll of Castiel's shoulders, the fabric pooled to the floor around his ivory feet.

Sam was used to the sleek musculature of running backs and the powerful physiques of the blockers - all alluring in their own way. He often mused to himself that being in the locker room was akin to being a starving man at a smorgasbord, where he was neither allowed to touch nor look too long, lest the food rise up and kick his ass.

But Castiel was a different breed of beautiful. His dancer's body was all sleek lines and exquisitely formed limbs that Sam longed to lick. He ached to tangle his fingers in that thick, ink-black hair. Sam drank in ocean-blue eyes and the constantly simpering mouth.

He had waited his entire life, never expecting this moment to actually come. In fact, on the day he married Ruby, he had resigned himself to the idea that hers would be the second and last body he ever entered. He had assumed he would never have a man.

Castiel's erection strained against a lacy, white thong. He caught Sam's chin between his thumb and forefinger and dragged his face up so that their eyes met. "I'm up here."

Sam nodded.

"Good boy." Castiel leaned over a desk and spanked his own ass, once, but so hard he left an angry red print. "I'm going to want you to ram that monster cock so far up my ass I can taste you come."

Sam huffed.

"You want to spank me, Sam? Hm? Come on. Spank me. For what I did today. The way I touched you without permission. You should punish me for that. Make me pay, Sam. Please." He lifted on his tiptoes so that his pretty, pink asshole was on full display.

Shuddering, Sam ran his tanned hand over Castiel's smooth, creamy skin, admiring the contrast. "Do you shave?"

Castiel laughed. "You ask a question like that, at a time like this? How old are you, Sammy?"

"Twenty."

With his neck craned to look over his shoulder, Castiel's expression melted from hard lust to a kind of tenderness Sam hadn't expected. "Oh, darling. What have I done to deserve this? Yes, I wax, sweetheart, because a bare cunt is so much nicer than a gnarly forest, wouldn't you agree? Doesn't Ruby shave for you?"

Sam jolted, shaking his head. "Can we not ... talk about her?"

"Of course, honey. Anything you want. If you want to call me by her name, I couldn't care less." Castiel pulled Sam's fingers into his mouth and sucked until they were sopping wet.

Overcome by another wave of heat, Sam leaned over Castiel's back to catch his breath. His wet hand was lead to Cas' entrance. "Finger my pussy, baby. Come on."

Sam stood upright, eager to do as he was told. His mouth parted as his forefinger sank into Castiel. The low rumble of Cas' moan was an octave Ruby's voice would never reach. Sam stretched his other hand around, reveling in his smooth, firm chest. He pinched a taut nipple between his fingers.

Castiel threw back his head and gifted Sam with another perfect growl. Still slowly working the finger in and out of him, he ran his left palm over the ridges of Castiel's ribs and down the ripple of his abs. Sam held Castiel with a finger in his ass, the other palm on his hip - convinced that he could climax from touching this man.

When Sam reached for his cock, Cas pushed him away. "Don't."

The scolded hand retreated to clutch Castiel's hip, and the raven-haired man pushed back onto Sam's finger. "Give me two."

"Don't we need ... you know, lube?" Just because it was his first time didn't mean Sam hadn't researched - a lot.

"I like it dry."

"Doesn't that hurt?"

"Yeah," Castiel answered.

Sam dribbled spit onto his ass and worked it in with two fingers. Castiel arched his back and Sam traced down his sensually curved spine.

"Spank me."

The sharp sting burned Sam's palm.

"Harder."

Sam struck him again, setting off a flare in his own groin.

"Fucking hit me, Sam."

He obeyed, and Castiel made the most amazing sound Sam had ever heard. It was a cross between a shout, a whimper, and a moan. Sam struck him again and again until his hand felt like it was on fire. Then he pumped three fingers into his ass, milking Castiel for more of his heavenly sounds.

"God, Sam. Your hands. Harder."

"Do what harder?" Sam asked. He was already concerned he was hurting the man.

"Everything."

Sam smacked Castiel's right cheek with his left hand. He pulled his fingers all the way out of his ass and jammed them back in again. Castiel's body lurched back and forth until Sam's forearm began to ache.

"Don't move."

Cas groaned at the loss of his fingers but stayed put while Sam's shaky fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. He stroked himself swiftly, his left thumb circling Castiel's hole. It was open wider than before but still looked pretty tight. "Are you ready?"

"Always, sweetheart."

Sam drew the condom from his breast pocket, ripped it open with his teeth and started to roll it on.

Castiel caught his wrist. "I'm offended, Sam."

"I just…"

"You're not going to get anything from me."

"Yeah, I know, but…" As much as he would have loved to fuck Castiel bare - God, just the thought of it - the least he could do for Ruby was be safe. "Castiel, you sure you don't have lotion or something..."

"There's lube on your rubber. Come on. Give it to me."

Sam shook his head and lined himself up. Castiel tucked his left arm behind his back for Sam to hold. Sam spat on his hole again. Then he drove in, as slow as he could without going insane.

Castiel's head tilted back. "Jesus, fuck, that's a big cock."

He tensed for a moment, then relaxed so completely that his entire body shifted like a ragdoll as Sam pressed into him. Sam gripped his forearm tightly and pulled him into a standing position. Castiel sighed out a long breath and wrapped his free arm back around Sam's neck. With his left hand splayed on Castiel's stomach, Sam reached for his cock.

"I said, no."

Sam wrapped his arm around Castiel's waist and bit down on his shoulder. He pulled out, drove all the way into him, and came undone, whimpering and shaking, as if it was his very first time.

Standing at the door, some hours later, Sam pulled away from Castiel's kiss. He shook his head at the cold fact that being with this stranger had been more gratifying than anything he'd ever done with Ruby. It didn't seem fair that everything she gave him would never be enough. Castiel wiped his brow. "You think too much."

Sam smiled sadly. "Probably true."

Castiel's smile was every bit as warm and brilliant as Sam didn't feel. "How about you let this be the one place you don't do that. You come here to feel good. Okay? Leave all those deep thoughts outside."

Sam nodded and let himself be dragged into one last searing kiss before he went home to his wife.

Sam's dad stood as his son approached their families' corner table. He greeted Sam with a broad wide smile and a hearty clap on the shoulder. "There's my boy."

"Sorry, I'm late, everyone."

Ruby shot him a look that conveyed, 'Where were you? I called. We'll talk about this later.' in the span of one second.

Sam took the open seat between his mother and his sister, spreading his arms across the backs of their chairs and planting a kiss on each of their cheeks. Ruby smiled as Mary brushed invisible lint from his tie.

"Alright," Sam's dad announced. "Since we're doing a twofer here, I'm going to toast Sam and Avrim will toast the beautiful couple."

Ruby's father began with an unsurprising declaration: "When Ruby first told me she wanted to get married, I said to Judith, he's a nice enough boy, but he's too young. It'll never work…"

Mr. Salins had been permitted to give a speech at their wedding. It was a minor miracle that they weren't all still sitting in the hotel listening to him wax poetic, philosophical and very rarely comical. If one thing could be said for Sam's father-in-law, though, the man was unflinchingly honest. Ten minutes later, he was explaining why he and his wife didn't yet love Sam like a son, but that they expected some day it might come to that point. Ruby pulled on his pants leg and whispered, "Daddy."

Avrim nodded and lifted his glass. Everyone at the table followed suit. "But as son-in-laws go, we could do much worse. And so, to Sam and Ruby, we raise our glasses. Two years behind you and a lifetime ahead. Mazel tov and may your lives together continue to pleasantly surprise us."

As Avrim sat, Sam's dad cleared his throat and rose to his feet. "I'm going to keep this brief because you already know how proud you make your mother and I."

"Me, too," Jo chirped, and everyone laughed.

Sam squeezed her arm and smiled.

His dad went on. "Sam. Happy birthday, boy. We love you, and we've always known what a wise young man you are. That's why Ruby came as no shock to us. I always told you, you find a good one, snatch her up. You've both done that. You got a good man there, Ruby." He raised his glass.

"I know it, sir." She smiled softly at Sam.

"To my son."

Everyone at the table drank to the toast. People at nearby tables smiled. Jo lifted her glass of apple juice. "Can I make one?"

"Of course." Mary grinned at Sam, who rested his chin on his fist to listen.

Jo cleared her throat like their dad had done. "To Sam. The best brother ever. Also Ruby, who was very smart to marry him."

"Here here." Ruby clinked glasses with Jo across the table.

As they all settled down, the waiter offered Sam a wine menu. While legally, he could have ordered alcohol, he didn't want to wreck everyone's evening with a surprise performance. He'd never had a drop in his life; this wasn't the night to start. He declined the menu and asked for water.

Sam asked his mom about their flight. She asked him about training. Everyone placed their orders. Sam leaned over to Jo and whispered behind his hand, "Great toast. Best one."

His little sister beamed.

Sam basked in the sight of the smiling faces and animated conversation around the table until Jo asked, "Can I smell?"

"What?"

She pointed to the fingers Sam had subconsciously been holding below his nose every few minutes so that he could breathe in the subtle, musky scent of Castiel. The smell lingered, even though Sam had showered before rushing to this gathering. He chuckled and pointed to the book in Jo's lap. "What are you reading?"

She handed over the thick hardcover copy of the Chronicles of Narnia. Sam immediately recognized its tattered pages and flipped open the cover.

For Sam,  
May your life be full of journeys and adventures.  
Love, Dad

He smoothed his hand over the dedication. "Good book."

Sam shut his locker and smiled warily at his new teammates.

"Yo, Winchester." One of the tight ends sat on the bench, lacing up his shoes. "You in, man?"

Across the room, a defensive tackle tossed his gym bag over his shoulder and said, "It's some Puerto Rican girls that's just -"

"Dyyyyyyin' to meetcha," they sang together.

"Nice." Sam laughed and shook his head. "I can't, though. My folks are in town."

"You religious or something, aren't you? One of those guys that don't party, right?"

"No. I don't, usually." Sam flashed his ring finger. It had served as a powerful shield in college and continued to strike reverence into the hearts of all who saw it.

The tackled visibly flinched. The blocker just shook his head. "Man. How'd she get you to do that? Knocked up? You got kids?"

"No. Just an amazing woman." The best part was, it was entirely true. Sam never had to lie about that.

He propped up on an elbow to get a better view of the beauty beside him.

Castiel smirked, but didn't open his eyes. "You should take a picture."

Sam chuckled, a little embarrassed at having been caught staring.

"You know what? We should." Castiel sat up. "Let's make some pictures."

"I don't know if that's…"

"Trust me, Sammy. It's a good idea." He hopped out of bed.

Sam grinned, never tired of watching Castiel move, especially when every inch of him was bare. Apparently aware of his audience, Cas lifted his left leg - knee to ear, foot straight to the ceiling - and smirked over his shoulder before he cartwheeled from the room.

Less than a minute later, he returned with a professional-looking camera. "On your knees. Point that fucking monster at the camera and jack yourself. Slow. There you go. Nice and slow. That's good … Eat that pre-come... You heard me. Put it in your fucking mouth … Suck it. Good boy. That's really good."

Sam followed every instruction like a good soldier until he was on the verge of exploding. Castiel stepped forward and gripped him tight at the base of his cock. "Mm-mm. I'm not done with you. Turn around."

Castiel snapped photos of Sam holding his ass cheeks wide open, fingering himself, fucking himself with a dildo. The more he shot, the more Sam allowed himself to get lost in Castiel's orders and praise.

Then, Cas handed him the camera, but he required no prompting and no directions. The first thing he did was lay on the bed with his body turned sideways to display the magnificent swell of his thigh and the torque of his obliques. His dick wasn't visible from where Sam stood, but it didn't matter. Sam's jaw dropped, and he gaped, the camera dangling in one hand while he stroked himself with the other.

"Sam. Shoot."

The son of a drill sergeant never needs to be told twice. He shuddered and spilled all over Castiel's feet. For a moment, Cas mouth fell open. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "God, you're fucking adorable. I meant the camera."

"Oh. Oh, shit."

"You're amazing." Cas lifted a foot to his mouth and licked it clean.

Between his filthy moans, the flexibility required to assume that position and every fucking thing about Castiel, Sam's cock twitched, as if it had more to give.

Cas scooted to the end of the bed with his eyes turned up to be sure Sam was watching as he cleansed Sam's hand with his tongue. The man was a controlled substance: dangerous and intoxicating. Sam would have given anything to be able to taste him. He stroked Cas' coarse hair. "Can I…"

Castiel tucked his erection between his thighs and snapped his knees shut.

Already accustomed to that reaction, Sam returned his focus to Castiel's tongue playing between with his fingers. He raised the camera and snapped a shot of that, as well as a few of Castiel sucking his thumb.

Sam whispered, "Stop." and took a dozen pictures of Castiel's face. He looked up from the viewfinder, heat washing over him like a baptism by fire. "God, you're beautiful."

Somehow Cas managed to combine 'I know.' and 'You lie.' into one expression. He took the camera from Sam's hands. "Come here."

He pressed their lips together, trapping Sam's skull in his free hand while snapping off a series of their tongues tangling in the space between their mouths. Castiel licked Sam's soft palate and massaged the inside of his cheek, sensations he had never felt before.

Sam closed his eyes to give himself over to the merciless ways Castiel toyed with him. He was an instrument in the hands of a virtuoso, tuned and ready to perform any song, any task that was requested of him. He would work magic, levitate, conquer galaxies for more of what Castiel gave him.

Cas set down the camera, stood, and pushed Sam down onto the bed. He climbed onto his lap so that they were facing. Just as Castiel started to wrap his arms around his neck, Sam shouted, "Fuck!"

"Mmm. Let's." Castiel rolled his hips, grinding his ass over Sam's nearly recovered cock.

Sam's eyes rolled back in his head. He gripped Castiel's hips to make him stop. "I totally forgot. I have to take my parents to the airport."

"Well, that's no fun." Cas groaned and crawled past Sam up the bed. "You just love 'em and leave 'em, don't you?"

Sam huffed. He and Castiel hadn't used that word. He hadn't even thought it. He had done precisely what Castiel had said: come to this apartment time and again and left all of the stress of the outside world on Cas' FUCK OFF! mat.

Anyway, it was just a turn of phrase. 'Love 'em and leave 'em' was just a thing that people say. Castiel hadn't confessed his undying devotion. They had only been screwing for a couple of months, and as much as Sam loved what they were doing, he'd always thought of love as being something different. Something more than just mind-blowing sex.

"I got to go."

After a quick shower, he stood at the foot of Castiel's bed, getting dressed. "I'm sorry."

When Castiel shook his head, it looked like a pardon. Then he asked, "Why don't you introduce me?"

"Good one."

Castiel crawled down the bed to kneel in front of him. He flicked open the button on Sam's shirt that he had just fastened. "You love me?"

Sam's stomach sank. Somehow, he had seen this coming. He needed to get to his folks in fifteen minutes. It was no time for philosophy. No time for asking himself, what is Love?

All he knew was that Love wasn't fucking someone's brains out, even if you did it every other day.

Then again, was Love the thing he had with Ruby, where he gave her part of himself and withheld so much? Could you claim to love someone if all you ever did was lie to them? For that matter, did Sam even love his parents? Did he love anyone, really, the way he would want to be loved - with honesty and acceptance and trust?

For the first time, it crashed in on Sam that for all the picture book smiling he did, he was completely alone. Castiel was the only person who knew every piece of him.

Considering that, Sam gave the only answer that didn't make him feel like an asshole. "Of course."

"Show me."

"Wh … How?"

"Introduce me to your parents." Castiel's hand smoothed down his shirt. "Just as someone you know. We can do it with Ruby there. Just say I'm the best dance teacher you ever had." He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, tempest-blue eyes so sincere.

"Cas…"

"Liar." Castiel stepped from the bed and stormed out of the room.

After Sam had finished dressing, he sought out Castiel to apologize again and say a proper goodbye. When Sam called out for him, he didn't answer, and Sam was already running late.

Sam kissed his mom and his little sister. His dad pulled him into a rough, one-arm embrace that ended with two manly taps on his back. The old man nodded his head, eyes suspiciously glassy. "Hold down the fort, son."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll be back for the first game," he vowed. "Alright, ladies, let's move."

Sam glanced in the driver's mirror with the phone nestled between his ear and shoulder. He pressed his lips together and did his level best to breath normally. "I can't right now, sweetie. Emergency meeting in a few minutes."

Ruby was an infinitely patient woman, but this was the third session of couple's therapy he'd blown off in a row, and her frustration was evident in the way she said his name.

Sam could understand why she was peeved. Things were not exactly cooking in the bedroom, unlike in the car. Sam rested his hand on Castiel's neck and tossed back his head just for a second. The phone slipped, and he scrambled to catch it. "I'm sorry. I'll be at the next one, I swear."

"Are you working out?"

"Yeah." Sam allowed himself the grunt he'd been holding behind his teeth since it corroborated with the story Ruby had invented. "Fucking leg curls."

"Sam!" She had asked him not to swear quite so much.

Sam would never understand her reasons, just like Ruby would never understand his testosterone-laden work environment, where every third word was an expletive. "Our home is not a locker room," she had said, and Sam had conceded the point, because - why fight? Both his dad's and father in law's (only partly) facetious advice for a happy home had been: 'Happy wife, happy life.'

"Sorry. Leg curls," he corrected himself.

"Fine. I'll reschedule," she said, deflated. "I really thought the first session helped, Sam. Didn't you?"

"Yeah. Babe, look. I got to go. We'll talk about it tonight."

"'Kay. I love you?" She had developed a nerve-wracking habit of making a declaration into a question when she was disappointed.

"Me, too." He hung up the phone and tossed it on the floor. "Jesus." Sam slid his right middle finger down the crack of Castiel's ass, deliciously visible in his skin-tight pants.

Castiel always favored black leather, and it favored him right back. He sat up and grinned. "Leg curls. You're hilarious."

In Sam's defense, there had been a last minute team meeting called that afternoon. That had been over for an hour when he got Ruby's call.

Sam was on his way to a convenience store to buy lube, because no matter how much Castiel said he could take Sam without, it freaked him out. Besides, he held on to hope that he could talk Castiel into flipping for once.

Sam had made the mistake of letting Cas tag along. Now that stupidity/generosity was being punished/rewarded - by having his entire cock swallowed.

"Oh, fuck." Sam's legs shook involuntarily as he came apart, long and hard.

He leaned forward, inadvertently crushing Castiel's head into the steering wheel. Sam's vision cleared just in time for him to right the car and avoid colliding with an oncoming wagon load of old ladies.

"Fuck, Cas. Fuck."

Castiel sat up and licked the corner of his mouth. "You shouldn't talk to a lady that way."

Sam chuckled, still struggling to catch his breath.

Castiel's face remained utterly serious, lips pursed in a librarian's glare. "Would you say that to Ruby?"

Sam's mouth fell open. Actually, Ruby was the adventurous one. She was constantly trying to get him to experiment, when all Sam ever wanted to do was fulfill his husbandly duties, in missionary position, as quickly as possible and be done with it.

But Cas had Sam figured out. He would never say that to his wife. Would never growl, "Fuck, Ruby." to her, in case she thought it was crass and pornographic. In all fairness, though, she had also never deep-throated him in a residential neighborhood in the middle of the day.

Sam kept waiting for Castiel to say he was kidding. When it didn't happen, he started to mumble an apology that was interrupted by a police siren.

He took the moment before the officer approached to put his cock away and zip his pants. While the man waited for Sam's ID, he muttered the gruff standard: "You know why I pulled you over?"

"No, sir," Sam answered with all the respect he'd been taught to show those who protect and serve.

"You were weaving pretty serious there. You been drinking?"

"No, sir." Sam handed over his license and registration, only peripherally registering how silent Castiel had become.

He was practically blending with the upholstery.

"Winchester. I thought you looked familiar. Aren't you the Steelers' new boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hot damn!" The officer slapped his knee. "Welcome to town, boy. We got high hopes for you. God knows we need the new blood."

Sam chuckled, a thin tendril of relief allowing him to relax. "Thank you, sir."

"You haven't been drinking, have you, son?" It looked as though it pained the officer to even ask the question.

"No, sir. I don't drink."

"Well…" The cop looked at his ID, clearly contemplating his next move. "You need to start driving like you throw."

Sam chuckled. "Yes, sir. I will work on that."

"Why don't you sign this for my kid and we'll get you on your way."

Sam gave his autograph and tucked his license back into his wallet. The officer held up his pointer finger. "All the way, right?"

"Absolutely. Super Bowl or bust."

Just as Sam was beginning to see the light at the end of this tunnel, the policeman leaned down and cast a confused scowl at Castiel. Cas sat stone still with his hands on his knees, staring forward out of the windshield like a pod person.

"Hey. Buddy. You got ID?"

Castiel rolled his eyes without turning to face the officer. "Is there a reason you want it?"

Sam's heart pounded against his chest like a fist.

"Do you want to detain us or are we free to go?"

The officer narrowed his eyes and looked back at Sam. After another moment of deliberation, he nodded and said, "Warning this time."

"Thank you, sir."

The cop gave Castiel another glance and strolled back to his car.

Sam drove off, pulse on overdrive, doing 20 MPH in a 60 MPH hour zone. Once they had gone a few miles, Castiel melted like ice on a griddle. He slapped Sam's thigh. "Hot damn, boy."

Sam's heart rate had not returned to normal, and Cas' sudden liveliness unsettled his nerves further. He gripped the wheel tight and took a deep breath. The fresh air seemed to chill his entire body.

Castiel ran his hand over his hair. "I swear, I never set out to be a star fucker, but if I told you some of the supposedly straight men who have come up my ass, it would make your head spin."

Sam's head was already spinning. The car may as well have been whirling like a top in the middle of the road.

Not for the first time, Sam told himself he had to get out of this. Over the previous months, he had tried to cancel and refuse invitations, but could never bring himself to miss a single opportunity to be hiding away in Castiel's lair like there was no outside world. It was the only place where he could ignore calls from his wife and his agent, and just be. But this was a wholly different matter: driving in broad daylight with his cock down Castiel's throat was just plain stupid.

Sam had become a junkie and had come this close to being caught with a needle hanging from his veins. Castiel was a drug that Sam kept doing every chance he got. More and more often he was stealing time from other things to get that high. The traffic stop was his signal flare to kick this habit, once and for all.

"Castiel. This is … not working."

"I'd figured you'd say that. We can keep it at my place."

"No, I…, " Sam stuttered. "I've already been thinking that I need to do this differently. Everything. I need to … For one thing, I can't just keep cheating on my wife … "

"With a man," Castiel added casually.

"With…" Sam's vision blurred for a second, ice rushing through his veins.

It was as if the full potential danger of the police officer's scrutiny was finally catching up with him. "That guy just totally … people are already fucking recognizing me here. What the hell am I doing?"

"It's okay. It's okay, Sam."

Sam gawked at the hand caressing his arm. He shook his head for a full ten seconds before he could speak again. "I can't… We need to stop this. Right now. I'll take you home. That's it."

Castiel's head tilted, his eyes piercing Sam's as he whispered, "You want to just throw me away?"

"That's not … Not what I said," Sam muttered.

"I'm in love with you, Sam. That means nothing to you?"

"How?" Sam's voice was high, nearing hysteria, as he tried to focus on the road as well as the impossible conversation. "I mean, all we've done for the last three months -"

"Don't you dare," Castiel hissed like a viper. "Don't you belittle our connection. I let you into my body. You're part of me."

Sam blinked feverishly, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Castiel this is ... this has been…"

"Don't you say it."

"Okay. More than fun. It's been…" An adequate word failed to come to mind. "I can't throw my life away over …"

"Some fag."

"That's not…"

Without any warning, Castiel grabbed the steering wheel and veered the car into the shoulder. Sam slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched over asphalt and rumbled on the gravel. Sam managed to straighten up the car as the front bumper scraped loudly against the guardrail.

"Jesus Christ!"

Castiel drew in a loud breath through his nostrils and folded his arms over his chest. "Do you think your coach or the press would be more interested in our photo shoot?"

Sam stared, terror making him incapable of speech or movement, and reducing his breath to tiny sips of air.

"You leave me, I will fucking finish you," Castiel spoke the words softly, like sweet nothings to a lover.

With those few whispered words, he made it all so simple. There was nothing for Sam to decide. Nothing to change. Nothing to fear, even. As long as he didn't piss Castiel off, everything would be fine.

The apartment was dark. Sam entered cautiously. "Babe?"

He was home three hours later than he'd predicted and already had a good idea of what Ruby's reaction to that would be. His jaw dropped at the candles flickering in the dimmed dining room. Three red roses stood in a slender vase between their best flatware and a lovely salad. Ruby ushered Sam to his chair, where once seated, she kissed his cheek.

"What's up?" Sam tried to keep the suspicion from his voice as he filed through the Rolodex of occasions in his mental calendar and came up blank.

Ruby poured water from the carafe into his glass. "You don't want to do the therapy, we don't have to."

"It's not that ... I don't think we need it. I think we're fine. You're beautiful. I love you." When she sat down the bottle, he took her tiny hands between his. "Therapy is not going to make me love you any more than I do. Nothing can do that. I love you... so much. You are... you don't even know."

"What if…" Her careful whisper startled him. Ruby was usually such a confident, strong woman. In that moment, she quaked. "What if I had your baby?"

Sam froze and released her hands. "We said we were gonna wait."

"Yeah." Somehow, she had landed on the floor before his chair.

Sam pinned his knees together and hoped to God she wouldn't try to initiate anything. There was no way he would be able to perform. Even if Castiel hadn't already drained him dry, the situation was the polar opposite of hot.

"... Until we got settled," he continued.

"I know."

"...And see." Sam tried to recall the exact words they had used when they'd talked about this.

"I know, Sam, but…" She wiped an errant lock out of his face.

"Are you?"

She nodded, trying for a smile and failing. Sam wiped a hand over his mouth and sat back in his chair.

"We don't have to now," Ruby said. "We can wait, like we said. I just... figured since it happened, maybe this was the right time."

"It's not," Sam replied, sounding harsher than he'd intended.

There wasn't a kind way to do this. Sam knew his wife well enough to recognize that she was forcing herself to nod in agreement. He could practically see the eggshells she'd been walking on. Ruby was trying everything in her arsenal to trying to draw him in. Sam didn't have the words or the heart to tell her what a waste her efforts would always be.

Now, this. He knew how much Ruby wanted children. She was four years his senior, and still nowhere near her biological cutoff. And she was still in school. The timing wasn't ideal for her either. The bigger issue for Ruby would always be the abortion she'd already had before they met. It was something she had confessed to Sam on their third date, in a fit of tears and tissues. She had already said that she would regret that decision for the rest of her life.

But that's why she was on the pill. They hardly had sex at all - once every few weeks. There was no point asking how this had happened. Sam had reproductive biology in middle school. He could only suppose that behind the science, there was a curse. Ruby was being punished for his sins, which seemed especially cruel, even for the mercurial God he learned about in Sunday school.

After everything Ruby had done for Sam, he was going to take this from her. It made him feel like a monster, but he didn't have a choice.

Maybe later. He had always told himself that he'd do it. Have a family, for Ruby, although he never really wanted a kid. As great as Sam's smile looked in print, he knew himself to be too much of a fuck up to pass his genes on to someone else. As highly as everyone seemed to think of him, he'd been a liar for as long as he could remember. Now, he was also a cruel and selfish cheat. When Sam Winchester looked in the mirror, he saw an all around bastard. How was someone like that supposed to raise a kid?

Sam figured if he mostly stayed out of the way, with Ruby it could be a good thing. Someday. Later. "Not now."

Ruby nodded and started to clear the table. He stepped behind her, took the plate from her hands, and buried his nose in her hair. She still used the same green apple and honeysuckle shampoo as when they had met.

He wrapped his arms around her, kissed her ear and vowed, "When the time is right, we'll have a whole team of them."

She clutched his arms tighter around her and let out an ugly sob/snort that made them both laugh.

The next throw was even more off target. Sam couldn't help but snicker at the stunned look on the receiver's face as the guy watched the ball sail past him, yards out of reach. He could have dived for it, but apparently, the poorness of the toss was too much of a shock.

The coach tooted his whistle and waved them both over. Sam jogged slowly; the air and his brain matter were of a thicker consistency than usual.

"What's going on? You're not even under any pressure, kid." The coach scratched his gray hair. "Why are you throwing off your back foot?"

Sam shrugged, willing himself to keep his mouth shut. There was no telling what he might say with his head full of oatmeal creme pies.

"Is something going on at home?"

Sam shook his head.

"Well, what the hell was that?"

Sam looked back over his shoulder and broke into a fit of giggles. "I don't know."

The look of awe on his coach's face made the whole thing even more hilarious. Sam doubled over, gripping his stomach, unable to stop himself. He covered his mouth with both hands to keep in the hysterics. He shook his head and apologized, but he couldn't stop laughing.

Some of the guys were watching. A lot of the guys. All of the guys. Sam wasn't sure. People's faces were blurring. The yard lines were already blurred.

The coach leaned close and whispered, "Sam, are you drunk?"

"No." The word was shattered by fresh chuckles.

Sam had never been drunk in his life. While he'd always been sensitive to certain foods, his body reacted to sugar the way he imagined most people react to tequila. Booze wouldn't kill him on the spot.

He opened his mouth wide for the coach to get a whiff, knowing all the man would smell was cookie and gooey stuff.

"What the hell, Sam?" The coach shook his head. "Just what the hell?"

Sam fought his snicker and followed the assistant coach to have his blood tested.

"You know what I'm going to do to you when we get to my place?"

Sam shook his head, transfixed by Castiel's eyes, a darker, almost mystical shade of blue under the setting sun.

Cas bit the corner of his lip and let their knuckles brush together. It was hardly any contact at all. That faint touch was inexplicably hotter than if Castiel had outright groped him. Sam had never been hypnotized, but he imagined it must feel something like this.

"Want me to tell you or do you want it to be a surprise?"

That tiny gesture, coupled with the growl of Castiel's voice, sent a heat wave through Sam's body like an electric shock. He licked his lips and adjusted his stance to make space for his growing cock.

He was smiling, thinking about what Castiel was going to do to him when someone shouted, "Go die, faggots."

The words hadn't even registered in Sam's mind before Cas lurched forward against his chest. Glass crashed on the pavement. Castiel would have fallen to his knees if Sam hadn't caught him. He touched the back of his head, fingers coming away covered in blood.

"What the hell?" Breathing fast, Sam struggled to get his bearings, looking in the direction of their attackers, now long gone.

A beer bottle lay shattered on the sidewalk around their feet. He peered directly into Castiel's eyes. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Fuckers."

"We should call the police."

Cas scoffed. "Probably a cop's kid, Sam."

Sam took two steps up the street, as if he was going to take off after the assholes who did it. "Seriously. They can't just get away with this. I think I could identify at least one of them."

"Sam." Castiel rolled his eyes. "Maybe you can call the cops, because you… blend. But when you're a girl like me, if you're laying in a ditch, half dead, you don't call the cops. Cops don't give a shit about us. We might as well be black boys."

"Cas, that's not…"

"I've been a fag longer than you've been alive. Trust me on this one."

Strictly speaking, it was an exaggeration, but Cas was 30 and had been out since he was twelve. Sam had to assume he knew what he was talking about, even it was only based on his experience. "Well, you need to go the hospital.'

"They're just as bad," Castiel said. "I'm going to go home, put some ice on my boo boo, take an Advil and let you rub my feet."

Sam shook his head and paced the corner with his hands on his hips.

Castiel calmed him with a hand on his chest. "Look at it this way. Now, you've been initiated. You aren't really a faggot until you've been called one."

Ruby stood before where Sam sat on the sofa. Her dark hair hung over her pale shoulders. She nudged his knees open with her own and slipped to the floor between them.

He tucked a finger under the silk strap of her burgundy teddy. "That's really pretty, honey. Is it new?"

She nodded and turned her huge brown eyes up to him like she was searching out constellations. Sam kissed her forehead, gave her shoulders a small squeeze and said, "They're killing us out there, sweetie. I just can't tonight."

Sam kept his face buried in the crook of his arm, while Castiel sat on his thighs, slowly fucking him with a small black dildo.

"So does this mean, no more catch?" Cas asked. "Don't get me wrong; I like seeing more of you. I'm just wondering…"

Sam shook his head and answered into the mattress.

"What?"

Sam pushed up just enough to repeat, "Probation."

"Which means?"

Sam shrugged and lowered his face again.

"Do you miss it?"

"I don't remember a time when didn't play football."

"Hm." Castiel held Sam's cheek aside and rammed his rubber dick into him like it was punishment. "Did you tell the sardine?"

Sam refused to acknowledge Castiel's nickname for Ruby. He arched his back to change the angle and said, "God, yeah. Right there."

6:18 PM was his usual time to be home from practice, and Sam was punctual for a change. Ruby was at her desk, working on her dissertation. He stepped into her office and kissed the crown of her head. She covered his hand on her shoulder with her own.

"Turning in."

Ten minutes later, she crawled into bed behind him. Sam lay stock-still as her arm slipped around his hip, hand fumbling with his crotch. He closed his eyes and let her play with him until it made him want to cry. Finally, he took her wrist in his hand and murmured, "Tired, babe."

She pressed her lips to his shoulder, her body shuddering slightly against him. There might have been a sob, but Sam didn't turn around to confirm. Her sorrow wasn't something he could face or fix.

Castiel stood at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips. He flicked a Skittles wrapper away from Sam's ankles and moved around to the bedside. "Here."

Sam groaned, allowing Castiel to help him sit up, despite his swimming head.

"You yack on my bed, I will murder you, Sam."

Sam swooned, too groggy to resist the cool glass at his lips. He swallowed Castiel's water and his bitter pills. Gradually, the swirling room paused just long enough to fade to black.

Sam awoke with a vicious headache and a furious pain in his right arm. It was the kind of pain that made you wonder if you were dying and wish that you could.

"Fuck!" He gawked at the white bandage around his wrist, breathing fast and fighting a losing battle against his tears.

Sam couldn't remember having been injured. He hadn't been to training in over a week and wasn't sure how long he had been unconscious.

He squeezed his eyes shut, balled his left hand into a fist and rolled his head to the side. He whimpered, the sound somehow worsening the agony. When he opened his eyes again, he found a glass of water and two tablets on the bedside table along with a note that read: 'Eat me, Drink me.'

"Cas?" he tried to call out, but his voice was shot, throat aching and parched.

Curiosity finally overtook him, and he tried to peel the gauze from around his arm, but found himself unable to bear the pain. Panting, he dropped his head back to the pillow.

Ruby stood with both hands clasped over her mouth as the doctor examined the wound. That had been her default position in the last two hours since they had arrived at the hospital.

Cas was no surgeon. He had just hacked right through skin and muscle and tendon, straight down to the bone.

"And you don't know what he used?" The surgeon repeated the question for what felt like the fiftieth time.

What different did it make what he had used? A coat hanger, a butter knife? The damage was done. It was this chick's job to fix it.

"I'm not sure." Sam maintained a semblance of composure. "I told you, I was unconscious."

The only detail Sam was sure about, he was unwilling to confess. Why Castiel had sliced the fuck out of his wrist, Sam wasn't even sure himself. He had done everything Castiel had wanted. He was at Cas' apartment more than he was in his own home.

When the doctor excused herself, Ruby took Sam's good hand in both of her own. She settled in the chair beside his bed. "Your mother is on her way."

"Why?" Sam sighed, lowering his head to keep from having to see Ruby's apparently permanent expression of grief and pity.

"I had to call her. How could I not call her, Sam?"

"The world doesn't end because someone gets mugged."

She didn't respond to that. Sam had filed a police report stating that he had been jumped, knocked out and cut. The cops took it all down without much comment. There was also a visit from the frizzy-haired hospital social worker who had offered to return at any time, if Sam wanted to talk. He had narrowly resisted the urge to tell her to go fuck herself. He knew how it looked and couldn't blame everyone for making their false assumptions.

As far as Sam was concerned, the story added up, all the way down to his missing wallet, which was still at Castiel's. It was as good as gone, because Sam was sure as hell never going back there.

Ruby's thumb grated back and forth across his left hand. "Baby, this is not … we're fine. You're fine. We're going to get through this. Whatever you need."

"Ruby, I didn't do this to myself." That was as much truth as Sam could afford and he clung to it like it was his last dollar.

He repeated it to his mother the following afternoon while she wept into her cup of tea. "You were always so sensitive, Sam. You don't know how I worried for you in middle school. You used to sit there, so quiet and tell me you were thinking. 'Just thinking, mom.'" She covered her trembling mouth with a quivering hand. "Oh, baby. Too much pressure. I told your father…"

"Mom. I didn't do this to myself," Sam said, although he was beginning to understand how even that statement was not entirely true.

His choices had created this situation. It was indirect, but he had, in fact, made the bed he was lying in.

Although Castiel clearly hadn't been trying to kill him, Sam strongly considered finishing the job himself. This was far from the first time he'd thought of taking a permanent way out. Just the closest he'd ever come to doing it. He wasn't a wrist slitting type, though. The methods he favored were far less fallible.

In fact, when Sam met Ruby, he had been on the verge of trying one of those methods. She had become a new North Star for him back then. And she had saved his life after the Castiel incident, both times in ways she'd never know. With her east coast liberal values, she had insisted there be no guns in their home. In the bleak, midnight moments when he most longed for a way out, Sam lacked the mental capacity to track down a weapon.

He had a suspicion that Castiel could be helpful in that regard, but if there was one thing Sam never intended to do, as long (or as briefly) as he continued to live, it was talk to Castiel Novak.

Sam's agent sent a card. His head coach and a few teammates even came by the house. The man had checked his usual gruff manner at the door and made a remarkably gracious speech about how once a player is a member of the Steelers family, he's a member for life. Sam's mother cried again.

It wasn't lost on Sam that Coach Marlowe and the delegation from the squad were all dressed in black suits, with their arms clasped in front of them, heads solemnly bowed as if it were a funeral. He was fairly confident that it was the last time he'd see any of them.

Ruby had given a confused frown when the coach said for the third time how sorry he was if he hadn't made it clear that the probation was temporary. She didn't question Sam about it. She stood, shook all of their hands, thanked them for coming and saw them to the door.

While his mother washed the dishes from tea, Ruby settled beside him on the sofa.

"Don't you …" Sam murmured. "You should probably get some work done, right?"

She rolled her lips into her mouth and took a deep breath like it required intense mental preparation to speak to him. "You need some time…"

Sam nodded.

"Of course." Ruby stood, still holding his hand. "Call me. For anything."

"Yeah. I will." He tried to free his fingers.

She held them firmly. "I love you."

"I know. Me, too."

And still, she didn't leave. She nudged his leg with her knee, making it rock slightly against the other. "I love you. No matter what."

Sam nodded.

Ruby finally released his hand, but it was only so that she could rest both of hers on his shoulders and lean down into his face. "This is not a defeat. It's a turning point."

Sam clenched his jaw to keep back the scream welling up in the back of his throat - 'Run! Go! Get away from me! You have no idea what a fucked up mess I am!'

Sam had learned how to work his dimples before he was two years old. He flashed them for Ruby's benefit, nodded again, and sighed when she finally left him the hell alone.

He fell asleep on the sofa. In his dream, he had stolen something in an Arabian market. Something small and insignificant that had belonged to him in the first place. Still, two linebackers from his team held him still while his dad hacked off his hand with a machete.

Sam gasped awake. His mother was already at his side before he could sit up all the way. She wiped a palm over his forehead. "No fever. You want to try just half of this?"

The pain medicine he had taken in the hospital made him hallucinate so badly, he'd had to be fully sedated. Sam winced at his ravaged hand. Movement hurt. Stillness hurt. Besides not wanting to startle Ruby or his mother with any more out of control behavior, this pain was Justice. He deserved to suffer much worse. He shook his head and gripped the leg of his sweat pants with his left hand. "No, I'm fine."

When the doorbell rang, his mother called back to Ruby that she'd answer. Sam was so busy staring at his bandage, wallowing in the keen, pulsing ache that he didn't consciously register any of it until his mother was leading another guest into the living room.

"Honey, your friend is here to see you."

Sam's breath caught in his throat. His heart halted for a long moment before thrashing against his chest. Castiel entered, carrying a rectangular Tupperware. He whispered as if someone was sleeping, "Your mother is lovely."

"Shall I take that." Sam's mother reached for the dish.

"No," Castiel said. "No. It's for Ruby."

"Oh. That's nice. Should I go get her?"

Sam nodded, still trying to breathe normally. The moment his mother was gone from the room, Castiel leaned forward and hissed, "You blocked my calls?"

"You cut me."

"You're welcome."

Sam could only gape at the madman in front of him.

"You were too much of a coward to leave that game, just like you're too much of a coward to leave your wife."

Sam scoffed, speechless. The waves of heat that rolled over him had nothing to do with arousal or attraction. He vacillated so intensely between anger and terror that he could hardly see straight.

"You've been pretending so long about everything else that your family doesn't even know you don't want to play football. How can Ruby possibly love you, Sam? She doesn't even …"

"Castiel?"

Castiel stood upright and opened an arm as if to comfort her. "Hello, darling. I heard what happened."

"How? I mean… Tell me it's not in the media. Sam's agent promised us…"

"No, no, darling. I have my sources. You know I always know everything." He handed her the platter.

"You know people at the hospital?" Ruby guessed, clearly needing an explanation.

Castiel chuckled. "Sure, honey. I didn't come to stay. Just to see how the brute was doing and tell him we've missed him in class."

"I've told him that. And this…" She looked at the dish in her hands. "This is really too thoughtful of you."

Castiel waved off her gratitude. "It's an old family recipe. Sardine souffle. Hope you enjoy it, Sam."

"Well, that was sweet of him to drop by." Ruby sat the Tupperware on the coffee table while Sam's mother saw Castiel to the door. "Should we, maybe, have some for lunch?"

Sam eyed the dish, sure that something terrible would happen if Ruby opened the lid: an explosion, snakes, something. As it turned out, it just stank to high heaven. As far as Sam could tell, the recipe for sardine souffle was open the can and dump the fish into the tray. Serve with irony.

"I don't think he's much of a cook." Ruby turned up her nose. "You feeling brave?"

Sam turned away. "Not hungry."

Miraculously, she didn't argue but returned to work on her paper. Sam's mother hovered while trying to appear not to hover. He attempted a single round of the PT exercises he was assigned and still found it impossible to touch the tip of his thumb to his pinky without a searing pain that made him shout out loud.

Eventually, Mary came to redress the wound. Sam frowned at the soggy skin around the taut blue stitches. He bit his lip as she swabbed away a tiny gob of pus. "We'll have to go back in tomorrow if that keeps up."

Her touch, the iodine, air: everything burned like a brand. Sam bit back a whimper and tried for a joke. "Won't be going to the Super Bowl with this monstrosity?"

"Sam." His mother stopped what she was doing. "Look at me."

He obliged, knowing he had practically begged for sympathy he didn't deserve.

"That is not important."

"Dad knows…" Sam couldn't even begin to imagine his dad's reaction. Just the thought of facing the man made him want to end himself again.

"Your father and Jo have school." Sam's mother continued her torturous, tender care. "They'll be here this weekend."

After breakfast the following morning, Mary ironed a button-down shirt and was helping Sam shrug into it. Ruby had been back at her desk, trying to get in an hour of writing before they made the trek to the doctor to be sure Sam's wound wasn't becoming infected.

"Mary." Ruby stepped into the room, studying her cell phone. "Could I … Can Sam and I have a moment, please?"

"Of course." Sam's mom slipped the shirt onto his shoulders and whisked away.

Ruby took a deep breath and sat on the corner of the bed, worrying her bottom lip.

"What is it?" Sam asked, although he already knew.

Even before she moved, before she spoke another word, he knew that this era of his life was over. He could see it on her face, feel it crackling in the air, making the hair on his neck and arms stand on end.

She handed him the cell phone. All he could do was blink down at the photograph. It looked professional. That really was some camera Castiel had.

Ruby's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. She shook her head, staring at her tiny hands folded on her knees. Sam couldn't take his eyes away from the slow, comforting caress of her left thumb over the other.

"Is this…" Ruby stared at the wall. "A phase?"

Here she was again, offering Sam an out. He could easily say that he was curious. It was experimentation.

Then Sam thought about his first crush from second grade. Daniel Ackerman had Superman glasses and hair almost as dark as Castiel's. "A fourteen-year phase."

Her nostrils flared, face on the verge of crumbling, but she nodded, resolute, impossibly steady behind the downpour. Sam knew Ruby's face. Nowhere in the stress lines and grief was there any indication of surprise.

"Is this why … everything?"

Sam wasn't sure what she meant by 'everything.' But it was why enough things that he nodded to keep from having to speak again.

She sat quietly for so long that Sam was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. He stood silently as a criminal awaiting sentencing.

She finally peered up at him with bloodshot eyes and asked, "Do you love me?"

"Yes."

Ruby nodded. "It's our marriage. We can define it how we want."

When it finally dawned on Sam what Ruby was saying, what she was offering, he realized just how wrong Castiel had been about one vital thing. Ruby loved him, unconditionally, and completely - the way anyone on earth would die to be loved.

Sam was the one who had cruelly sucked the life out of her for the last three years, like some kind of emotional vampire. He was the one who might not even be capable of real love. He had no idea.

Now that his NFL contract carried about the same value as the Charmin under the sink, Sam was free to find out about real love and anything else he wanted to know. For the first time in his life, he was free to be himself. He just had no idea who he was.

His father didn't come that weekend or the following one, or the next. For more than a month, Sam wasted away in his tiny studio apartment, unshaven, unbathed, with the curtains drawn over his mess. He ordered in food and anything else he needed, unable to find his way out of the darkness.

Most days, he spent hours at a time, cradling his shotgun on his lap, stroking over the barrel, the trigger, the stock. From time to time, he'd open his mouth and place the muzzle against his soft pallet, clamping his teeth down and closing his lips around the steel. He preferred the front sight under the chin but had read statistics that it was far less fail-proof.

Castiel never explained how he found him. It didn't really matter. He was there, at Sam's door, holding Sam's chin between his thumb and forefinger. "You look like Abraham Lincoln with this thing. You know that, don't you?"

Sam couldn't speak, let alone laugh.

"I'll take care of you, Sammy." Castiel scratched Sam's beard and blessed him with a sweet smile. "Don't I always take care of you?"


	23. Chapter 23

Jody takes off driving before Dean even pulls the door shut.

"You alright?"

When he nods, she does the same. Then she punches him in the arm, hard enough to bruise.

"I'm sorry."

"You fucking should be."

He wipes the dirt from the soles of his feet onto the dashboard.

"Where are your shoes, you little idiot?"

Dean leans back into the hand on his head, but the caress is over almost before it started. "Tonight or tomorrow?" Dean asks.

"What?"

He turns to face her. "Do you want to split tonight or get some rest first? I can drive if you want to go now. We could just roll from here with the clothes on our backs, like we did out of Barstow."

"Heat that hot?" She winces. "What the hell did you do?

"Nothing. It's just time to roll. Cops and ... other bullshit."

"Anything to do with that giant?"

Dean rubs his busted ankle. He has every intention on keeping it to himself, but the words spew out of his mouth. "He's fucking married. He's getting married."

"And you care because …"

"Shut up."

"Look. Let's agree. No more adults, okay?" Jody looks at him, waiting for some sign of compliance that Dean is never going to show. "This guy gives me the creeps, Dean. I got a bad feeling the first time I saw him."

Dean's laugh is the bitter, acid-flavored kind. "Yeah? A bad feeling? You ever have a bad feeling about Marc? Or Garrett? 'Cause those guys? They gave me fucking bad feelings. Like, a lot." His voice cracks and he shuts the fuck up.

This has to be Sam's fault. Before Sam started trying to get Dean to talk about this shit, he hardly ever thought about it at all.

"I'm not talking about my poor choices," Jody says. "I'm talking about you messing around with kids your own age, okay? No more with Sam."

"If we leave, that's guaranteed."

"What is wrong with you? You love him or something? Because I warned you..." Her voice has that same high-pitched disappointment and accusation as the time in Twentynine Palms when Dean broke into the cash register at her job.

"No."

"Good. Because we don't do that." She checks her mirror before switching lanes. "He looks like a fucking good lay. That body. God."

"Yeah."

"I understand that, but so are a lot of people. Even some your age. And if they aren't, you teach them. No more adults until you are one. Please."

"Fine. Let's just get out of here, now. ... Please."

"Did something happen?" Jody scours him with her eyes, as best she can in the car in the dark. "Did he hurt you?"

"I told you. He's not like that."

"Well, we're not leaving. Not yet."

Dean reaches for the radio and she slaps his hand. He sucks his teeth and watches other people's brake lights.

"Your coach invited us to dinner."

"What?!" He gapes at her. "Is that why he's been acting so weird? You went and talked to my coach?" Dean has half a mind to tuck and roll and hitchhike out of town.

"I wouldn't have had to do that if you had answered my fucking calls all weekend. I talked to every fucking person at your school because you were fucking missing." She spits the words at him before her expression breaks into something softer. "It was cruel, Dean. To let me think -"

"I'm sorry. I…"

She wipes her face with a rough palm and punches his thigh. "You're a selfish little shit."

"What do you want me to do? I'm sorry. Okay? I was pissed."

"Pissed that I wouldn't let you fuck a giant, who you went behind my back and fucked anyway, and now you want to run away from, because he's not what you thought, exactly like I said in the first place."

He couldn't feel any sicker if she had bottled up this bullshit and made him chug it. "You win, okay? Congratulations. Can we just get out of here?"

"Dean, shut up! No! We're not leaving. We're going to have dinner with these people. Your coach seems to think you have some serious potential. He's ... really proud of you."

If Dean didn't know his mother better, he would think she was choked up. But Jody doesn't do choked up or supportive. She has two gears: obnoxious and annoyed. "You do know that we're talking about football. Since when do you give a flying shit if I have potential or not?"

She stares at him longer than seems safe, considering that the car is still in motion and she's supposed to be driving it. "I want good things for you. Do you not know that?"

"Whatever." He can't think of anything more meaningful to say to her weird show of emotion. "We always blow town after bullshit with the cops."

"This is different."

"Why?"

"How about you stop arguing with me for a change, for fuck's sake? I've done everything I could for you. Everything. Can you just fucking do what I say and stop second guessing me for once?"

They're hardly out of the car when Dean's phone buzzes in his pocket. Jody watches him check it. "That him?"

"No," he lies and follows her up the walkway to the front door of the apartment.

"Tell him to leave you alone."

"I already did."

"Tell him I'll gut him."

Dean stops on the cracked sidewalk to read his text.

SW: Hey

He doesn't turn around to confirm the sneaking suspicion that he would find a gray Prius parked somewhere among the rusted out Fords and Chevys.

"Dean. Come in the house." Jody leans against the open door.

"I'm coming."

DS: Hey

SW: Just wanted to say good night

DS: Night

SW: Talk to you tomorrow

DS: Sam

SW: Just talk

Dean looks at Jody, who runs her finger across her throat.

DS: Yeah okay

SW: Check your mailbox.

SW: You. Not your mom. You have to have shoes

Castiel is in the kitchen with his hand curled around a steaming mug. Sam looks at him with a new and familiar amazement. Once again this man has revealed to him a new side of himself. In his life, Sam has never been this close to violence. He has never felt himself so near to inflicting harm on someone. Sam doesn't want to murder Castiel; he wants to do damage.

A few days ago, when he smacked Castiel to end the caustic words he was spewing at Dean, it was worse than Sam had ever thought himself capable of doing. Sam had not exaggerated. If Castiel ever raises his hand against Dean again, Sam will finish him.

But this is not that. Not defense.

This is a roiling current with its source in Sam's bones. It threatens to engulf him and turn Sam into the kind of monster he has always condemned as being depraved and poorly raised. Something cruel and deadly. His body was made for that. Sam could strike, kick, crunch limbs, so easily.

He retreats to his room and secures the door, putting as much distance between himself and the person he yearns to hurt.

Dean leans with one shoulder against his locker staring down at the fresh message.

SW: Should we grab dinner out or should I cook tonight?

It had come in this morning after first period. Dean hasn't responded because he has no fucking clue what to write. He takes a deep breath and thumbs in,

DS: Practice

Sam replies within seconds.

SW: I know. I'll pick you up after

DS: Can't tonight

SW: K. Tomorrow?

When Dean doesn't reply, his phone starts to buzz, alerting him to an incoming call. He glances up the hallway, as if someone might be watching. After stuffing the phone back into his pocket, he grabs his backpack and heads toward his class. On the third attempt, he wipes his hand over his mouth and resolves to turn the phone off.

Instead, in a moment of weakness and stupidity, he dips into the corner by the stairwell and answers, "What?"

Sam is silent for a second, probably surprised to be hearing Dean's voice instead of leaving another message. "I miss you."

"You saw me yesterday." Dean doesn't ever intend to be an asshole. It just happens naturally without effort. It actually requires more concentration not to be one.

"Listen."

Dean is about to protest when Sam cuts him off.

"Two years is nothing. I can wait, okay?" he says. "I understand if you want to wait until we're legal everywhere. I know you're trying to look out for me and I know that you're probably right. I just want you to know that I can wait. We don't have to do anything, nothing, you know… but I do need to see you. I… I can't let Castiel… He's taken so much from me already."

"Then, why are you fucking marrying him?" Dean shuts his eyes. He didn't mean to let that slip. It's not his business. It's not for him to tell Sam what or who to do.

"I told you this; I thought you understood."

"Yeah, well…" Dean hunches his shoulders and turns his back as a pair of giggling girls passes to go up the stairs.

"Castiel needs a lot of help, Dean. Once he gets it, he'll be able to stand on his own two feet. He'll leave us alone. I'm sure of it. The best way to make sure he gets what he needs is to through my insurance. The only way I can do that is-"

"Whatever. I got to get to class, man."

"Dean. Listen," Sam shouts into the phone. "If I were to move to Kansas-"

"Later, Sam." Dean squeezes out the words just as his throat closes for business.

He hangs up, cuts off and puts away the phone away. He scrubs his face with both hands, forbidding himself to fucking feel anything.

Sam slouches on his way out of the meeting back to the cubicles. Mrs. Mosely rests a hand on his arm, "Sam, it's not any of my business, but by the look of things I'm guessing you got girl trouble."

He huffs and laughs at the irony of her entirely off, though not entirely inaccurate, assumption. Beside Mrs. Mosely, Amelia's face is pinched in a concerned expression.

"No."

"Well, whatever it is, if you want to talk about it…"

"Thanks. I appreciate that." And Sam does, but he has no idea on earth how he would even begin that conversation.

They're playing some 80s song when Dean strolls into the gym with hands in his pockets. He parks it under a paper mache palm tree, watching people dance badly, just like that prom scene in Napoleon Dynamite.

JoAnna Winchester approaches, and Dean looks at his feet to keep from checking out her dress any more than he already has. That ruffly pink material looks like cotton candy. Her father was right to shut down the date. She looks like something to eat and here lately, Dean feels like one of those skinny kids with the puffed out, empty bellies and the flies laying eggs on their eyelids.

He hasn't answered a call or text from Sam in two weeks. He didn't answer the door any of the times the guy came to the apartment. Dean feels like he's been on hunger strike and Jo …

She holds out a paper cup of punch for him. Dean wipes the adorable Shirley Temple curl from her face. It falls right back into place, partially hiding her smile.

"You spike this?"

She grins. "You know me."

It's that sparkling juice stuff they always serve at these things, but it takes the edge off the desert sands swirling in the back of Dean's throat.

"You look nice," she says to cover for the way she's looking him over.

He has on the suit and tie he got from Sam, because it's the nicest god damn thing he's ever owned. That suit, along with his fucked up Chucks. "Yeah. You, too."

She looks down at herself, as if she doesn't already know what she's wearing. She twists her ankle to the side to show off the two-inch heel on her sparkly Cinderella shoes. "Hope I don't fall on my ass."

"You'll be fine."

She smells like strawberry candy. Or pie. The kind of pie you gorge yourself on until it makes you sick and then you keep eating it anyway because it's fucking delicious and you don't give a shit if you explode and die and someone else has to clean up the mess.

Dean massages the back of his neck and forces himself to look across the room. He's not looking for anything in particular. Just anything other than Jo's cleavage, most assuredly accomplished through the modern sorcery of the push-up bra. That doesn't make it any less dazzling.

Garth waves, with his other spindly arm around a short, plump, brown-skinned girl. His shiner outshines Dean's. He definitely took one for the team, the little idiot. Dean raises his punch in salute.

Jo raises up on her tiptoes. Without thinking, he leans down to hear her better and slides a hand to her back. "You want to dance?"

Warm breath on his ear sends a smoke signal directly to his dick. Dean shakes his head and backs up a little.

Jo bites the corner of her waxy pink lip and nods. She takes a deep breath and starts to tell him something else. He doesn't bite this time, and she has to hold his arm to steady herself as she reaches up to whisper, "My dad's office in ten minutes."

Dean tries to say no. He tries to leave her there, waiting in that room, and flee the building. It would be the right thing to do. But there is a pit in his chest that's been growing deeper and darker since the last time he saw Sam. Maybe Sam's sister can fill it.

He's been jerking off multiple times a day, thinking about Sam, trying to force himself not to think about Sam, thinking about Sam anyway. Leaving his phone off and at home and feeling like he was going to implode and cease to exist. They never should have come to this stupid town.

Jody is still insisting they go to this dinner thing with the Winchesters. But she had to work the last two weekends, so it's the waiting game and all around fucking torture. Meanwhile, Coach Winchester is still treating Dean like he's made out of guano and Jody won't say what beans she spilled when she talked to him.

It's not really a matter of choice, but of compulsion when Dean finds himself at his coach's door. He takes a breath, lets the ice rush through his veins in relief and disappointment that the door is locked.

He takes a step back, shakes his head as clear as it'll get and turns to walk up the hall. Maybe Jo was teasing him. That would only be fair. God knows he's teased the hell out of her, without really meaning to.

The bass thumps from up the hallway. Behind him, the door creaks open. Dean turns. Jo smiles and gestures for him to hurry. Something flits in his gut, like a butterfly with broken glass for wings. He checks over his shoulder and jogs to slip into the tiny, dark room.

There's a single candle on the desk, like Dean's birthday cupcake from Jo's parents. That ought to knock some sense into him. He promised the coach, but it takes honor to keep promises. If Dean ever had anything close to honor, he's all out of it now. All he has is this aching need for affection that Sam bred into him with just a few days of constant contact and heartless kindness.

Heartless, because Sam knew he had someone. He knew that Castiel would be back, would need him and that Sam would fawn and fall on his knees to do whatever that pyscho wanted. Sam knew he belonged to Castiel. Dean can't even be angry, because he knew it, too, from the beginning.

He's not angry. He's fucking crushed and forcing every single smile, faking the swag, sick to his stomach with every bite he chokes down.

Jo steps against him and his arms go straight to her slim hips. She rolls her lips under her teeth, looking up at him with so much hope, reflecting back his desperation. When Dean kisses her it's not because he wants her, but because he understands and sincerely regrets the excruciating frustration he's caused her. He kisses her because he has never suffered anything like this pull toward Sam. If what Jo feels for him is anything like it, Dean owes her more than a kiss. He should be groveling at her feet for forgiveness.

It isn't until Jo reaches for his belt that Dean realizes just how far down her throat he's plunged his tongue. He steps back, rock hard. His dick is completely on board with this substitution. She's not Sam. Not even close, but she is legal in all 50 states and single and all Dean's for the taking.

Jo pushes his back up against the wall and kisses the hell out of him while she loosens his tie, rucks his shirt out of his pants and opens his button. Dean catches her wrist as she's working on the zipper. He pulls away, breathless. "Jo."

"I want this, Dean. I really want this."

"Yeah, I see that. Just … take it easy for a minute." He turns his face away from her, struggling to get some of the blood back in his brain.

She lets up with the kissing and revs up the petting: soft, warm palms sliding under his shirt up his chest, slightly sharp nails blazing trails back down. Dean leans his head back against the wall, pins his hands behind his ass to keep himself from touching her.

Jo peels down one, then the other of her baby pink spaghetti straps. "My dad expects me to stay a virgin forever. But that's not how real life works."

She drops to her knees.

"Aw, Jo." Dean closes his eyes.

Actually, he closes one eye, because he knows he should not be looking at her. He is physically unable to get the other one to shut, because Dean is a human being and he wants nothing more than for her to suck him off while he imagines her brother on his knees.

After all, Sam has Cas. Why shouldn't Dean have something good?

JoAnna is church-girl-good, praying to him with her breath on his dick. Raspberry-colored nails, cream-white lady fingers rubbing up and down his thighs. Holy God, she's good.

Dean is hard enough to pulverize nails and on the verge of disintegrating into fucking tears. Sam's wrath, the coach's, not to mention not wanting to hurt sweet Jo: there are so many good reasons not to touch this girl. And how can he not touch this girl?

He puts his hands over hers to make them stop agitating the hell out of his skin.

"I want my first time to be with you," she whispers up at him, eyeing his dick like it's the fucking holy grail and all she wants to do is drink. Dean would be selfish not to let her drink. "I know that you don't want me to regret it. But I would never ever regret you. No matter what happens afterwards."

As she reaches for his dick, her lips part.

Some super-human force makes Dean stop her hand. He grinds his other palm against her forehead, holding her back. "Get up. Get up. Getupgetupgetup. God, please."

She stumbles to her feet and murmurs at her twinkly shoes. "Too forward. Right? You wanted to hunt me."

"What?" Dean pulls up his pants, covering the evidence of how he feels about girls who go for what they want.

She hangs her head and cries into her small hands. Dean looks at the door. This is his shot.

Instead of making tracks and leaving the little virgin in tears, he takes her bird-boned wrist and pulls her with him to her father's chair. He draws her into his lap with her back to his chest.

All he has to do is nudge and her thighs spread wide, legs draped over his. She drops her head back onto his shoulder and urges his left hand to cup her tit. This little girl dissolves like sugar in water, soaks his fingers hot and sweet. She moans and grinds against him, tiny body straining in his hands. He kisses her neck and whispers her name because that's all it'll take.

She whimpers and shudders for an eternity. It always was magic, making a girl come: the tremble and quake, responsible for that helpless cry.

After a while, Jo is still again, only panting softly. Dean wipes a tear from his face onto her shoulder and clears his throat. "Listen, Jo. I … I shouldn't have done that. I.."

"I love you," she murmurs, even before she's fully caught her breath.

"Jo."

"I do. I love you. Whether you love me back or not."

He squeezes his arm tight around her ribs. "You're my best friend. That's unbreakable, okay?"

She nods.

"You wouldn't want me for a boyfriend. No one would. I don't have any fucking clue how to do it."

"But I do. I would, if you did." She turns her head, trying to brush the corner of her lips against his.

The whole room smells like girl now. Dean's head spins with it. He buries his face in Jo's bun, breathes in vanilla shampoo and hairspray. She's still perched on his boner, making rational thought damn near impossible. He has to get out of this. Has to not fuck this up any worse. Has to not fuck Jo.

Dean pushes her up out of his lap, but she spins and stands there with her knees touching his. She runs her fingers through his hair. He shakes his head and presses his chin to his chest, damn near hyperventilating. He needs to make her stop wanting him so that he can fucking do the right thing.

"I'm going to tell you something, and I don't want you to get mad at me. But you are. You're going to get mad at me, and that's okay because it's my fault. I went after him and I always get what I fucking want."

This is a bad idea. But if Dean stops talking, he's going to start screwing. His blood is boiling, dick bone-hard. That attention addict part of him is hooked on the way Jo wants him. It's the only reason he's been leading her on this long. And if he fucks her, she'll never forget him as long as she lives and who can resist that kind of immortality.

Another selfish part of Dean wants to believe that Jo is his friend. And if someone other than his mother and Sam's crazy fiancé knows what Sam and Dean had, that makes it more real. It was too brief with Sam, but it was so good. Dean will never have anything that good again.

After this dinner thing, Kansas is about to be just another rearview mirror state. So he says it, because what difference does it make? "I wanted your brother the second I saw him."

"What?" Jo's brown eyes burn almost black by the light of that candle.

"I, um... Sam and me -"

"Sam? My brother, Sam? When did you even meet him?"

"Your dad's party."

"That was like a month ago." Judging by the look on her face, Dean ought to have brought a vomit bag along for this ride.

"A little more than that. We, uh-"

"You what? You wanted him? What does that even mean?"

Not too late to use that door. "Hate-free zone, right?"

"No." She shakes her head sharply. "No way you're gay."

"You're right. I'm not."

"So…" Jo's anger melts into confusion. "Did you have sex with my brother? Is that what you're saying?"

Dean exercises his right to remain silent. Anything else he says can and will be used against him.

"Sam is, like, thirty."

"Twenty-seven," he says, already forgetting that he was supposed to be shutting the fuck up.

It takes a moment, but Jo's eyes soften. Her head tilts sweetly as she reaches out to touch his cheek. "He molested you."

"No."

"That's why you're so weird about this." Her fingers stroke down his face.

Dean shakes his head, unable to believe how far off the rails this shit has gone. "Jo."

"We have to tell my father."


	24. Chapter 24

Dean pauses in front of the first Jack o' Lantern he's ever carved. It's kind of a hack job, but it's on the Winchester's front porch for all the world to see. Mrs. Winchester put a green bulb in his and a brown one in Jo's, so the eyes shine with the right colors. The swell of pride over his pumpkin is annihilated by the sinking dread at what he's about to do.

He reaches over and tugs down the hem of Jody's skin tight, sin-black, pleather mini dress. "I can't believe that's what you wore."

She frowns down at her plunging neckline. "What?"

"You look like a Robert Palmer video reject." It's too late to do anything about it. He pinches his lips together, rings the doorbell, and straightens the slim, black tie Sam bought him.

Dean had scrubbed the pits of the green shirt and laid it out overnight. It's stiff and gross under his arms, but it looks good.

The second the coach opens the door, his face falls. Jody's lights up like Christmas. She practically sings, "Hey Johnny."

Dean looks back and forth between them. "You two..."

Coach Winchester shakes his head, but his heavy glare tells a different story: one Dean suspects he already knows but does not want to hear out loud.

"Mm. Something's smellin' good in there." Jody shoves past the old man and into the house.

Dean considers apologizing for his mother, but it's not like you get to pick. The coach claps his shoulder, unspoken apology accepted. And maybe he's got things to atone for himself.

By the time Dean steps into the kitchen, Jody has her nose over a steaming sauce pot. Mary Winchester is either scandalized, impressed or both. She can't take her eyes off Jody's six-inch heels.

Jo bounces into the kitchen and damn near shakes Jody's hand off. "Mrs. Smith, it's a pleasure to meet you. I just want to tell you have raised such a wonderful boy."

Jody snickers and points at Dean like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard.

Dean crooks his arm over Jo's shoulder and kisses her hair. She smells like a frigging lollipop. "It took a good girl like Jo to bring out the gentleman in me."

Mrs. Winchester cuts her eyes at them like she suddenly can't stand to see them so close. Dean wouldn't be surprised if Jo has already spilled the beans about Sam to her mother. Or maybe now that she sees wht kind of stock he's from, the idea of the street rat with her precious daughter is completely unacceptable.

"Dean, would you bring me the salt, please?"

It's two feet away from her, but Dean does as he's asked. Jody investigates the cabinets. Then, she leaves the kitchen, letting her voice trail off behind her. "Where'd that handsome husband of yours get off to?"

Mrs. Winchester stirs her sauce. With her lips pursed like this, Dean can finally see a resemblance between her and her kids. "Jo, honey, can you make sure everything's on the table?"

Dean decides to find his mother before she breaks something, but he's too late. Jody already has Coach Winchester cornered behind his bar. His back is turned, her hand on his shoulder as if she's trying to get him to face her.

The coach notices Dean first. Then he and Jody both look up and back away from one another. Coach narrows his eyes at Dean and leaves the room in a dark cloud of silence.

"Jesus, Jody. What the fuck?" Dean barrels toward her.

She downs the rest of the drink the coach abandoned and takes a deep breath. The doorbell rings just in time to spare Dean from having to hear her answer.

"I'll get it." Mrs. Winchester calls out from the kitchen.

Sam's mom answers the door in her baking apron. She reaches up as he bends low to hug her.

"Sorry, we're late."

Castiel raises a hand over his heart in melodramatic sincerity. He holds the other hand in the air, as if taking a vow. "My fault entirely. Massive wardrobe crisis."

Crisis is right. It took him two hours to decide what to wear, and that was after his customary hour-long cleansing ritual. The resulting ensemble is a plum-colored crushed velvet blouse, green, black and white plaid slacks and pearl-blue alligator skin shoes. His coal black hair is slicked back like he's working for Al Capone.

Sam's mother smiles politely and offers her hand. "And you must be Castle?"

"Castiel," Sam says.

She smacks her forehead. "I knew I would mess it up. I tried to use those mnemonics, you know, where you have a picture that you associate with the name and-"

"Oh, it's all right. We've actually met before, but it was in another lifetime. I don't expect you to remember." Cas is still shaking her hand, like he's meeting a celebrity.

"I thought you looked familiar." She gives Sam a strange smile. "Why don't you boys come in?"

Without further discussion, Castiel barges past her and into the house. "Smells divine, Mary."

Sam drops his face to scratch his brow. There is no use trying to explain Cas.

His mother pats his arm. "He seems very spirited." She holds up the bottle Sam brought to examine the label. He hangs up his jacket and wipes his sweaty palms down his slacks. Bypassing the kitchen, Sam rounds the corner into the parlor.

Jody nudges Dean's arm. "Is that…"

As he turns around, Castiel bounds from the kitchen, clapping his hands in celebration. "Honey, look. It's the littlest heartbreaker. Did you know he would be here?"

Sam stops in his tracks, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. Castiel giggles into his fist.

"Let's go." Dean presses a hand on Jody's back and ushers her towards the door. Sam catches his elbow and Dean yanks away. "Get the fuck off me."

When Jody leaps between them, Sam blinks down at her. "I just… I need to talk to him. Please."

"No." Jody winces, like she's sick to her stomach. "You get lost, you freak."

"Mom." Dean gestures for her to wait for him by the door.

"I hate you talking to him."

"Just chill."

Dean lets Sam corral him into a corner raising his hands to make it clear that Sam is not to touch.

"Why are you here?"

"That's what you wanted to say?"

"You won't answer my calls. You…" Sam's lip trembles, glassy eyes trying to lock with Dean's.

"We're done, okay? Do you need me to say it any more plain than that?"

"Why?" Sam asks, sounding as if he's about to shatter. After a deep breath, he shakes his head. "No."

"No?"

"No. I can't… It can't be over. We haven't even really gotten started." He reaches for Dean's arm. "Let's just get through whatever the hell this is and then… we'll figure something out. Whatever it takes, okay?"

Dean doesn't agree to anything, but he doesn't argue. "Why are you here?"

"My mother said it was important."

Dean's eyes wander to the coach's bar where Jody and Castiel are plundering the hell out of his stash.

"I was with him for six years, and he never met my parents," Sam says.

"Whatever, dude." Dean tries to walk around him.

Sam presses his giant palm into the center of Dean's chest. "Not whatever."

"Dinner!" Mrs. Winchester's voice chimes from the kitchen.

It distracts Sam long enough for Dean to slip past him. Jo steps into the room and the smile melts from her face.

It's ten different kinds of fucked up, but at this point, it's a matter of self-defense when Dean slings his arm over her shoulder. Sam's mouth twitches like he wants to scream. The look on his face reflects exactly how Dean feels.

"We should go eat." The only reason Dean doesn't insist he and Jody split altogether is out of respect for Mrs. Winchester.

He knows how much work is involved in preparing all that food and the meal is probably going to be the only good thing about his last night in Kansas.

Jo nuzzles her forehead against Dean's chin as they walk to the dining room. She wraps her arm around his waist and whispers, "You have to tell Daddy. I can't do it. It has to come from you. But he will protect you, I promise. When he hears about this, he'll kick that freak the hell out of here and you won't have to look at him ever again."

She fits perfectly under Dean's arm. He's so comfortable with her. They move so naturally together. They make sense in a way Sam knows he and Dean never will.

Sam stands rooted to his spot on the floor until his mother curls her arm around his and escorts him to the table.

Once everyone is seated, Mrs. Winchester squeezes the coach's arm. "John, would you say the grace?"

Jody fights back her laughter. The others mimic him in bowing their heads. All hands are solemnly clasped over crystal salad plates. All souls await the blessing. Coach Winchester raises his dark eyes on Sam. "What is he doing here?"

Mrs. Winchester reaches across the table to touch Sam's hand. "I invited our son to dinner."

"Why didn't you talk to me first?"

"Because I had a feeling you might behave the way you're behaving now."

"So you went behind my back?" The old man's fists coil on either side of his plate.

"This is a family dinner, John. Sam is a part of this family."

The coach smashes his hands on the table and knocks over his chair when he stands. The cutlery bounces and clangs back down slightly askew on the white tablecloth. "This is my house, Mary!"

"John, please."

"I don't have a thing to say to him."

Sam is the only person not looking at the coach. He's too busy staring at Dean.

The coach shakes his head and starts to leave the room.

"Dad?" Sam rises slowly from his seat. He's half a foot taller than his father, but he seems small and somewhere around half his age. "I know I let you down..."

Coach Winchester stops in his tracks to glare at Sam. "Let down? A missed pass is a letdown. A lost game, hell, a shitty season is a letdown. The moment you turned your back on the game, you turned your back on me."

"Dad."

"I see you, all I see is failure. And I can't stand to look at it." Coach takes a stilted breath. "You had the chance to be a superhero, Sam. And you chose to be a gay accountant."

No one gasps. No mouths fall agape at the revelation. Jo looks angry. Dean is studying his plate. His mother watches like they're on television and Cas' expression is impossible to read. Sam's mother's face is blank and drawn, but she doesn't seem surprised.

"You knew?"

Sam's father scowls like he wishes he had snuffed his son in his cradle. "How could I not know? I probably knew before you. Bet you don't remember how you used to drool over the muscle magazines even before you started school."

Sam doesn't remember it, and he's too stunned to respond.

"You remember being ring bearer at your mom's cousin's wedding?" Sam's father continues, "How you told everybody in the church that you were going to marry Carlos Vega?"

Dean's face is a mask. It's driving Sam insane not to know what he's thinking.

"Do you remember that, Sam?" His father's voice snaps him out of his oncoming panic.

"Carlos was my best friend in kindergarten." That is all Sam recalls.

"Yeah, but that's not what you said."

"Oh, John, he was five. It was adorable." Sam's mother tries to touch her husband's hand. "Everyone laughed."

"They laughed because he wasn't their kid… Fifth grade. Scout trip. You remember that?"

Sam has the scars to be sure he never forgets that.

Somehow, though, he's only remembered the beating, not the cause of it. He always remembers his father's cold wrath, but not how his ten-year-old self had incurred it. In one cruel rush, the whole thing comes flooding back, like water bursting through a levee.

By some miracle, Sam is unable to cry about it now.

Mrs. Winchester rests her hand on the coach's. "We don't need to dwell on the past anymore, John. Sam. This is supposed to be a celebration. Our family is growing. Can we just celebrate that? Mrs. Smith?"

Jody looks at her and at Dean, but doesn't answer.

"Okay. We'll start with Sam's news." Mrs. Winchester motions to Sam and Castiel. "They're getting married. Isn't that lovely?"

"Sam is already married," the coach says.

Dean concentrates on forcing air in and out of his burning lungs.

Sam hangs his head. "I talked to Ruby…"

"Oh, how is she?" Mrs. Winchester asks. "Tell me that you two have patched things up."

Sam shifts his fork one inch to the left. "We talked. Yes."

"Where is she? What is she doing?" She rests her elbows on the table, and her chin on her folded hands, clearly awaiting a full report.

"She, uh, she lives in Florida. Near her parents." Sam clears his throat. "She has a daughter. Luna."

Dean's mother points her fork at him. "She's yours, isn't she?"

As soon as Jody makes the accusation, Sam's eyes fly to Dean. Dean's face warms, and he can only imagine what shade of pink he must be. If Sam is trying to be inconspicuous, he's doing a really shitty job of it. Dean shifts in his seat and stares at his plate.

"Luna?" Mrs. Winchester repeats the little girl's name.

Sam's daughter.

"Johnny," Jody calls after Coach Winchester as he flees the room.

"I can't right now, Jody. I just can't."

Sam's mother and sister huddle on the sofa like mourners, in their simple, black dresses, with their heads bowed. Cas and Jody are vultures, buzzing around his father's bar again. Sam gives a quick nod towards the steps and hopes that Dean will follow.

He hasn't really walked this house in more than six years. Everything seems smaller. There's no reason to get sentimental or offended that they've turned his old bedroom into an office. Dean alone is all Sam wants right now.

His eyes are drawn by the shuffle of Dean's ratty basketball sneakers over the hardwood in his parents' hallway. "You were supposed to buy new shoes."

"Yeah, well. I didn't." Dean's hands are in his pockets. At least he's wearing the black jeans, shirt and tie Sam bought him. Apart from the shoes, he looks perfect.

"Your money is at the apartment. I'll get it back to you."

"Why are you being like this? And what's with you and Jo?"

"Jealousy's not a good look, man." Dean picks a pad of Post-it notes from the table and says, "I think our parents are fucking. My mom and your dad. How nutty is that shit?"

"I definitely get that impression." Sam shuts the door. "Listen. I've been researching the hell out of this thing. Missouri. My apartment, we… I could definitely get into some serious trouble if we keep… but here, in Kansas, they've got these bullshit criminal sodomy laws on the books. Point one on the statute targets gay men specifically. It's unconstitutional, bogus garbage, but it's the fucking law. It's almost like the best thing would be for us to move to fricking Iowa."

Through Sam's entire legal tirade, Dean has been thumbing through the user manual for the inkjet printer. "What's with you and boy scouts?"

"Me and... yeah." Sam slumps to the floor with his back against the wall and lays out the story of his scars in Technicolor, sparing no detail he can remember.

It was just a stupid dare. Sam didn't even like Matt Carter. He had nursed a raging crush on Matt's brother, Nathan, for most of middle school, but that was later. Matt was cute, but he also pushed people around. Sam had never liked him, not even as a person.

For some reason Sam could no longer remember, Matt got it into his skull that Sam would love to kiss him. For the longest time, Sam had ignored his taunting, but at the end of the day, when Matt dared him, instead of working on the bonfire like he was supposed to be doing, Sam had grabbed hold of Matt's ears and sucked on his mouth until the stupid idiot stumbled backwards and fell over a log. It was priceless.

The whole troop flew, squealing, up to the campsite like they had seen a mountain lion. Sam had swaggered up behind them, feeling light as air, and big as Paul Bunyan for taking the bet, not for kissing Matt. The kissing had just been slimy and gross. He couldn't figure out why anyone would ever want to do it.

By the time Sam was nearly up the hill, his dad was storming toward him with a stick in his hand. His dad had never hit him, so Sam didn't even have the good sense to cower or run.

Sam had been stung by a jellyfish in Bermuda the summer before that. When the first blow struck his shoulder, it felt a lot like that. Only it was worse, because it was coming from his dad who was wearing an expression like he planned to kill Sam, one sting at a time.

Sam's dad spun him around and shoved his face into a tree. Stunned, Sam grasped at the trunk to keep from falling. His dad tugged down his khaki shorts in one quick movement. Just his shorts. The underwear, he left in place. Tiny mercies.

"Boys don't kiss boys, Sam." Each syllable came with a searing slice over the backs of his thighs. "Say it."

As Sam remembers it, he wasn't so much crying as gasping for air, trying not to asphyxiate, while hot tears poured down his face. How was he supposed to speak when he couldn't even breathe?

"SAY IT, SAM!"

"Boysdontkissboys." The words blurted out of Sam's mouth as he sucked in a jagged breath.

"Boys don't marry boys." Again, there was a sting from the switch and a shriek from Sam for every word.

"Daddy, please." Sam tried to turn around.

His father pushed him back into place, fist clamped around his neck, pinning his cheek against the bark as he lashed. "Say it, Sam."

Piss warmed the front of his Captain America Underoos and slid, tickly down his leg. His father never let up. "Say it, goddamn it."

"Boys don't … marry boys."

"Boys like girls. Boys love girls." There was just one swat for each word.

Sam's legs were on fire, as sure as if he had been burning at the stake. His father could have hit him a hundred or a thousand times more. It wouldn't have hurt any worse. He couldn't have cried out any louder. "Boys love girls."

"Are you a boy, Sam? Are you?" Sam's father dug his thumb into the side of his throat.

His whole body ignited with pain; the world spun before his eyes. He tried to respond to the trick question with the wavering hope that his father would let him live. "Yes, Daddy."

"Say it."

"I'm a boy." It had made him think of Pinocchio. Sam was old enough to know his nose wasn't going to grow. And old enough to know that, somehow, his father was making him lie.

"Say it."

"I'm a boy."

His father held him in place. "And boys do what?"

"Like girls."

"You got that, Sam?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"You know what happens to boys who kiss boys? They die. People kill them because they're dirty. Is that what you want?"

"No, sir."

His father stepped back and dropped the stick. Sam clung to the tree until his legs buckled and he slid to his knees in the cold piss-mud.

When he was finally able to turn around, the whole troop was still standing on the crest of the hill, watching, like the Winchesters were the main attraction in the Coliseum.

Sam watched his father's back as he marched off. In the distance, an engine turned over, and wheels peeled out as he left the campground.

Mr. Carter, Matt's dad and troopmaster tried to scoop Sam up, but it hurt his legs too bad. So, he made Matt and another kid help Sam up to his tent. He put some kind of ointment on the gashes on the backs of his legs and the scrapes on his face.

When Sam's father came back, he smelled like sweat and beer, like he always did after bad fights with Sam's mother.

Through the walls of his tent, Sam overheard Mr. Carter saying, "I'm not telling you how to raise your boy, John."

"Make sure you don't."

"But some of those gashes are pretty deep. I think he's going to need some stitches."

"He'll be fine," Sam's father said. "You take care of your boys. I'll handle Sam."

"And now, you know that."

Dean curls his fingers in Sam's hair, massaging his scalp and making him rest his head on Dean's shoulder. "Your dad's a fucking asshole."

Sam doesn't reply.

"To give up his son over fucking football. You realize he's insane, right?"

"He always said it was the family business."

"It doesn't matter." Dean grips Sam's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "It's complete bull. And who fucking cares that you're an accountant. You're not going to cry over a maniac like that. I won't allow it."

Sam huffs and nods his agreement.

They sit in silence for a what feels like a long time before Dean stands and snags a paper weight football from the desk. "This used to be your room?"

Sam points at the corner that now houses a computer desk. "My bed was right there."

"Bet you got laid a lot." Dean presses the power switch on the printer and the machine hums to life and back down again.

"I guess I could have. I was basically mauled at Homecoming my freshman year."

"Yeah. You told me about that. Girl probably thought you wanted it."

"I didn't. Sam's lip curls as he thinks of Cara Jones in his lap with her dress hiked up around her waist. "I dated this girl, Jessica Moore, for the rest of high school. Super Christian, so she didn't want to have sex any more than I did. I mean, I wanted to. Just not with her. The guys on the team assumed we were doing it. That was good enough for me."

Dean hunts for something else to distract himself and avoid eye contact. Sam doesn't try to force the issue. Instead, he points to the far wall. "I had four Tom Brady posters. I was so into him."

Dean nods like he can see where Sam had them lined up on the wall. "Yeah, he's hot. His wife, too."

Finally, unable to stand the distance and the uncertainty any longer, Sam takes the paperweight from Dean and sets it down. He holds the kid's busy hands in his own and swallows thickly. "What do you think of me now?"

Dean looks down at their hands rather than at Sam's face. "What am I supposed to say to that?"

"That you hate me. Because I'm just like your father."

Dean pulls away and fiddles with a stapler. He paces the room, putting space between them again. "You know how many times I wished my father would have just split and left us the fuck alone instead of chasing us across the fucking country? You're nothing like that dirtbag. Plus, you didn't even know, right?"

The stapler pops open, sending a tiny rain of shiny binders to the floor. Dean looks down at them for a long moment before he plops into the black leather office chair and begins swiveling back and forth.

Sam leans forward with his hands on Dean's knees to make him be still. He prostrates himself before the boy and holds his flawless face between trembling hands. "Would you look at me, please?"

If Dean was in his right state of mind, he would have told Sam to stop being a girl. As it is, he feels like a fucking girl himself: all overheated and melty, heart beating out of control. It never fails. This is what Sam reduces him to.

Sam lifts up onto his knees to kiss him. Dean holds him back by his shoulders. "You need to go see your kid."

Sam shakes his head and lowers his eyes. "She's not … I mean, I'm pretty much a sperm donor."

"Do you know what it's like growing up without a dad, Sam? It's bullshit. This kid has a father, and if you want to call yourself a man, you need to fucking suck it up, and go see her."

Sam scratches the back of his neck and eventually nods, all earnest and glassy eyed. "Yeah. Of course, I know, you're right. Doesn't mean I'm not scared out of my mind."

"How old is she?"

"Five."

"Little kids don't bite."

"Actually, some of them do." Sam kisses the back of Dean's hand where it lays on the armrest. "Would you go with me?"

Dean's mouth falls open, and he snorts out a strange laugh.

"She should know you. Right from the start."

"That's … kind of a huge deal." Dean pins his gaze to the clock on the wall. "Look, I wasn't going to say anything, but we're leaving tomorrow."

Sam lets the words sink in. Then, he shakes them away. "What if I don't want you to go?"

"Tough."

"It doesn't matter where you wind up. I will come see you every single weekend."

Dean's laughs it off, insides roiling.

Without warning, Sam pulls at his fly. That would have been fine if they weren't in his parents' house - Dean's coach's house with everyone downstairs. He glances at the door. "Dude."

"I need you now." Sam's voice is shaky, fingers fumbling with his button.

Gently, he pushes Dean back against the chair to slide down his zipper. Dean lifts his hips slightly so that Sam can tug his jeans and briefs down, just enough. Sam licks his lips. Dean's shaft twitches back at him, plumping up like Sam is some kind of dick tamer.

He bows his head to place a kiss on the tip. Dean grips the arms of the chair and watches, because if he does anything else, he'll lose it. Sam pushes the fabric of Dean's shirt out of the way, and he tucks it under his chin. Sam sticks out his thick tongue like a little kid. Then, he presses Dean's cock to his stomach so he can lick a hot stripe from his balls to the tip. He blinks slowly, hazel eyes turned up, as if for approval.

"God." Dean's hand quivers on its way to Sam's neck.

He takes him in, to the hilt and hums, sending vibrations rippling through Dean's whole body. Dean closes his eyes and clenches his teeth to keep back the sounds welling up in his throat. The fingers of both hands twine in Sam's hair to hold him still as Dean pumps his hips, fucking up into Sam's moaning mouth.

Sam grips his thighs and pulls off for a moment to catch his breath. His eyes water and he lets the tears trail down his face. "I don't want you to go."

It isn't another two minutes before Dean shoots down Sam's throat, drowning in the tidal wave of pleasure crashing through his veins. His back arches off the chair. He bites his own tongue to keep from shouting out loud.

Before he catches his breath, he sinks to his knees on the floor in front of Sam and wraps his hands around his neck. It would be great if it weren't for all the goddam staples biting into his knees through the denim. He reaches for Sam's belt with one hand.

Sam nuzzles his cheek. "You don't have to do anything."

"Would you shut up?" Dean sucks Sam's tongue into his mouth, savoring the salty aftertaste of himself. "You have to be quiet. I mean it."

Sam nips his bottom lip. "I'm always quiet."

"Like hell, you are." Dean grips a handful of Sam's Beast over his slacks.

The damn thing reaches most of the way to his knees. Sam rubs his huge hands over Dean's shoulders and down his arms while Dean sets him free.

'What the fuck. This is the last time I'm ever going to see him. If we're going to do this shit, let's do it.'

Dean turns around in Sam's arms and juts his hips back to grind his ass against the massive, seeping hard on.

Sam's arm closes around Dean's waist, holding him up and in place. "I don't have any lube, Dean."

Dean looks back over his shoulder. "I don't give a shit."

For the first time in his life, Dean actually wants to be fucked. More specifically, he wants Sam to fuck him, right here in the bedroom of this house where he had to hide all those years.

He lowers his chest onto the seat of the office chair, wets his fingers in his mouth and reaches back to begin opening himself up. It's been a long time. He's tight as hell and Sam is huge. They're both going to have to be patient, or Dean is going to feel it for a week. Then again, that wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened.

Sam kisses the back of his neck. The Beast dips into the crease of his ass. A warm hand clutches Dean's waist. Sam's hips reel back and forth, dragging his dick slowly between his cheeks, slipping over his hole. Dean is as ready as he's ever going to be.

All of a sudden, he's being lifted and twisted like he doesn't weigh anything until they are kneeling, facing each other again.

Sam licks his own hand, arches his back and angles his shaft down to lodge himself between Dean's thighs. Dean locks his knees together and lets Sam pull him close, staring hard into his eyes.

The first few presses forward and back are calm and steady. A low hum sounds in Sam's throat, like an engine revving. It doesn't take long for that sound to grow into a rumble and then, a growl. The louder he gets, the harder he rams.

"Sam," Dean half-whispers/half-gasps, trying to get him to shut up.

Sam folds his arms all the way around Dean's torso and begins to snap his hips in earnest. "Fuck."

Dean lifts off his knees every time Sam drives forward. He isn't groaning anymore; he is full on sobbing. Sam's fingers slip through Dean's hair. "God. Don't fucking leave me. Dean, please."

That hand settles on the back of his neck and holds so tight it borders on painful. Sam whimpers and thrashes against Dean's body, not chasing his climax, but like it's dogging him.

"Shhh. It's okay. I'm right here," Dean breathes into his ear.

Sam's arms close even tighter around him as he wails like a wounded animal.

"Sam." Dean's spine is bent at an awkward, not entirely comfortable angle.

His head lolls back in Sam's hand. Sam's mouth latches onto his throat, making greedy, wet noises. Dean wills himself to let go. To give Sam his way. More than anything, he wants this big, beautiful, broken man to forget all the crap he's been through. To use Dean to make himself feel good. "That's it, Sam. Ah, God. Whatever you need."

The doorknob turns slowly, like in a horror film. The door opens even slower. At least that's how it seems. In a matter of seconds that stretch out like minutes, Coach Winchester's face morphs from curious to horrified.

"Jesus Christ, Sam. Get off of him." Sam's father grabs him by the scruff of his shirt.

He hauls him away from Dean and tosses his body halfway across the room. In the scuffle, the chair overturns loudly, one of its steel arms scraping Sam's back deep enough to leave a fresh scar.

Dean fixes his clothes, avoiding the coach's eyes. Sam pulls up his pants and stands on the balls of his feet, ready to fight, if necessary. "I love him, Dad. I don't care how old he is or what you think of it. I love him. I'm completely fucking in love with this kid."

Dean's face has gone vacant again. It doesn't matter; Sam will fight this battle for both of them.

"He's your brother."

"What?" Sam and Dean reply in unison.

Sam's father does not repeat himself. He glares at Sam until the words begin to sink in, even if they still don't make any sense. John Winchester grabs a fistful of Sam's shirt. "That doesn't leave this room. You understand me? You even dream of telling your mother, I'll kill you." His eyes flicker to Dean before he moves to the door. "Get yourselves together and come downstairs, for Christ's sake."

'Sometimes when old men call you son, it's out of a sense of entitlement. Sometimes it's something else.'

"I just … I need…" Dean searches the room for something, for nothing, for anything.

He leans away when Sam tries to smother him in his overlong arms. Dean needs space, air, an explanation, and to get the fuck out of this place. He shakes head and escapes the room.

Mary and Jo have disappeared. For a welcome change, Castiel is actually quiet, sitting with his legs crossed, twirling a tumbler of something Dean could use a shot of right about now.

Jody silently nurses a drink as well. She raises her eyes timidly when he comes down the steps.

"So, what the fuck?"

"You guys are really loud," she mumbles.

"Jody. What. The. Fuck?"

Coach Winchester has the nerve to say, "Don't talk to her that way."

Dean's head snaps around to glare at the man and then back at Jody. She scowls at Sam, who has just come down the steps, and then lowers her face. "I told you to stay away from him."

"You knew?" Dean whispers, unable to speak the words any louder, amazed he's not screaming at the top of his lungs.

"I found out about Sam today." She glances at the coach. "I recognized John the second I saw him, of course, but I didn't know he had other children... We didn't do a lot of talking."

The coach stares at his feet as Jody explains.

"Listen, Dean. John and I have decided…" She looks at the old man again. "It's for the best if you stay here."

"What?"

Dean yanks away as she reaches for his hand. He bolts out of the door and is halfway up the block when his mother pads up behind him. She's had to abandon the whore shoes to catch up. "Dean."

"No." He doesn't even turn to look at her lying face, and flinches when her hand brushes his arm. "Don't fucking touch me. Do not talk to me."

"Dean, your dad…"

He stops in his tracks. "He's not my father. How can he be my father, Jody? It's not possible."

"There are some things that... " She scratches the side of her neck and touches her lips. "You just have to trust me on this. He can keep you safe here."

"So, he's not my dad?" His eyes narrow, watching her for confirmation.

She nods. "No, he is. And I can't explain it now. And you can't tell Mary Winchester. She'd… She wouldn't understand. You'd crush her, and you're not like that. You're not cruel like that."

"What's to understand?" Dean's laugh borders on hysteria. "John Winchester fucked you when you were a kid, ran off, and left you to … " Dean pauses, unable to bridge the widest gap in this story. "Who is the guy? The guy that's always after us? If Winchester is my dad, who the hell is that?"

"I can't … Maybe someday I can tell you everything. Right now, this is your family." She gestures behind him to the house. "John is your father, but no one else can know that. We just thought it would be good for you to know, so that you and Sam ... You told me you were going to knock that off."

"Yeah, well. You told me my father was the creep in the leather jacket."

"I'm sorry I lied. And I…" She starts to walk backward, away from him.

"Jody." Dean's feet might as well be superglued to the spot. "You seriously want to just leave me here?"

"Do you know the chances… This is the best… It's…" When her lip starts to tremble, she turns her back and hurries away.

"Jody!" He calls after her, unable to move. "Mom?"

Dean stares into his cup: Schnapps with a splash of tea. Mildred crosses her arms over her chest. "Well, you don't have to tell me the details, but you've done enough moping to know that doesn't fix a thing. Come, help me clean this attic."

As he's rising to follow her up the stairs, the doorbell rings. Mildred answers and Dean hears Sam's voice at the door, but lacks the energy to run through the back door like he should do. When Sam enters the room, Dean rolls his eyes and looks away.

"My mom thought you would be here."

Mildred plants her fists on her hips. "If you were supposed to be hiding out, you should have said so."

Sam stands there like he has some announcement to make, but there isn't anything to say. He lowers himself beside Dean on the couch. Mildred looks between them, and Dean can see the precise moment the lightbulb goes on in her skull. Her mouth opens wide, and she says, "Sam. Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Baker."

"Then, I'll leave you boys to it."

She's hardly left the room before Sam tries to twist their fingers together. "What did your mother say?"

Dean folds his arms over his chest, keeping his fucking fingers to himself. "She's fucking leaving me here."

"You mean…" Sam sighs and lowers his head. "Thank God. I mean, you know how much better off you'll be, right?"

Dean has never wanted to hit anyone more in his entire life.

"And that's why. That has to be why my father said that. And my mom said the family was growing, even before she knew about Luna, because… They had this all planned out. We're supposed to act like brothers. Not that we are. We can't be. You know that, right?" Sam grips Dean's knee. "We're not brothers, Dean. Look at me. We're not. We can't be."


	25. Chapter 25

No crack in the ceiling. The bed is comfortable, but it's no cloud. That kicked-in-the-gut feeling of waking up alone has been familiar for more than a week. Starting the day next to Sam is just another one of those things Dean has to get over. Eventually, it'll be like it never happened.

Not the world's most amazing bed. Also not a couch, and he can smell bacon. It takes Dean a second to piece together where he is. Life with the Winchesters is like landing somewhere in Purgatory.

Dean takes a quick shower and heads downstairs. Jo looks up from her cereal, hair damp, eyes half shut. It's an intrusion to see her like this, and he glances away.

"Happy Halloween." Mrs. Winchester hands him a plate spilling over with bacon and eggs touched off by a pumpkin-shaped pancake. "Did you sleep well?"

He nods and thanks her for the food.

"We're going to get that room fixed up just the way you like. If you prefer a different color, John'll take you down to the Home Depot, let you pick out the paint. You're going to have to get a little dirty, but if you want posters or… I don't know how kids are decorating these days. Jo's got Hello Kitty."

"I do not."

Dean has been in her room that once and knows that she does.

Mrs. Winchester gets back to her griddle. "Whatever you want. Cars? Ball players. Whatever makes you feel at home, Dean."

'How about the backseat of a Ford POS?'

He nods again and sits next to Jo. He hasn't called his mom. She hasn't called him. It's not like he can't understand. Jody dragged his sorry ass around for sixteen years. He can't blame her for finally wanting to be free. He just can't understand why she's lying.

The idea that his coach is his father is an insane, unnecessary lie.

Dean stops thinking about it and eats his fucking breakfast.

"Morning." Coach Winchester kisses his wife's cheek, accepts the thermos from her hand and grabs a banana on his way out of the back door.

Dean narrows his eyes, unable to believe he had ever admired this phony. Here he is acting all husbandly when he doesn't even have the balls to tell Mrs. Winchester the truth about Jody. Whatever the truth is.

Jo drops her bowl in the sink and gives Dean a drowsy smile. "We ride with dad."

Sam drags himself into the kitchen feeling like a thousand-year-old carcass.

Castiel grins like he's trying to outshine the sun. "Good morning Sammy. Doesn't look like you slept much."

"I told you not to talk to me."

Cas' chuckle explodes into brazen laughter. "You have a lot of rules for someone who's been fucking his baby brother."

"He's not my-"

"You know, there are ways of finding out if you're so certain. But I can understand that you don't actually want to know." Castiel covers his mouth, pretending to hold back the hilarity.

Without eating, Sam walks back out of the kitchen and locks himself in his bedroom.

As the door creaks open, Dean catches the flash of a silver cask before Coach Winchester slams his drawer shut. The door snicks closed behind Dean, and he stands in the coach's airless office with his hands clasped behind his back, spine arrow straight, eyes staring pointedly at an empty corner. "Yes, sir."

"Have a seat, Dean."

"No, thank you, sir."

"We should talk, son."

Dean openly recoils at the word. "I disagree. Sir."

"This is just as strange for me as it is for you."

"I doubt that." Dean's eyes dart about the room looking for someplace safe to land.

Coach Winchester scrubs a paw over his stubble. "Jody … is a remarkable woman. What did she… How much do you remember?"

"Not you."

A wince flickers over the coach's face and quickly clears again. "No. I didn't expect that you would."

"Can I go, sir?"

After a moment of deliberation, the coach nods. "Course."

Sam taps the screen on his phone, but still, finds no reply to his message.

SW: We still on?

Dean is the last one to his locker after class. Drenched and muddy, he feeds in his combination and peels off the filthy shirt to his gym uniform as Ash comes in from the showers.

"'Sup, Smith?" Ash rolls up his towel and smacks Dean's ass.

Dean pulls his clean clothes together. Before he can overthink it, he turns around and says, "Hey. I want you to leave Garth alone."

Ash smiles like a barracuda. "Looking out for your cock warmer?"

"He's a good kid."

"Is he good?" Ash leans back against the locker and runs his tongue over his sharp teeth like he's got something stuck in there. "Think I should try him out?"

"Ash, just leave him alone. It was funny. Just let it go now."

"Or what, oh captain, my captain?" Ash inches closer. It's almost imperceptible, but it must be happening, because Dean has the sense he's being cornered between Ash's naked body and his locker door.

"No or else. Just knock it off. As a personal favor."

"So, it's personal?" Ash licks his lips.

Dean does not want to have to kick this guy's ass, but it is becoming more and more likely. "I consider Garth a friend, so, yes."

"But other fags are still open season, right?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "What is your deal?"

"I don't like gays, man. They should all be exterminated. I don't want them in my school. Definitely not in my locker room. Is it okay with you if we have faggots in the locker room? Looking at your junk. Checking out your ass. Trying to get up next to you, breathe in your ear. Hump your leg." Ash starts fucking the air; his limp dick flapping all around. "That's disgusting, right? That's my deal. No set of rules is going to change it. I don't like fucking faggots, and they won't be tolerated."

"Just leave him alone." Without turning his back, Dean shuts his locker.

Thank fuck, that asshole is gone when he comes out of the shower. Once Dean pulls his hoodie on, he checks his phone.

Sam sticks his cell in his back pocket and drops his spoon into his teacup. He can practically feel Amelia stirring up the courage to talk to him and smiles when she manages to say, "How was your weekend?"

"Mildly insane. How was yours?"

She looks up at him, brown eyes dripping with an enchantment Sam would rather she would direct anywhere else. He searches the office for another person to can pull into the conversation.

"I visited my mom. That's about it."

Sam nods.

"Missouri said you've signed up for two tonight."

"Missouri?"

"Mrs. Mosely."

"Oh."

"So, you're bringing someone?" Amelia peers into her cup like she's trying to tell the future.

"I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to make it. My… uh, plus-one is… " he scratches the back of his neck.

"Oh. I didn't mean to pry."

"No. No. Just… We'll see." He clears his throat. "But you're going, right?"

She nods and grins down at her coffee.

"That's good." Sam sips his tea and wonders when it's polite to slip away.

The doorbell rings. Jo uses the remote control to pause A Nightmare on Elm Street. She pulls up her surgical mask and totes the bowl of candy to the door. Dean has been watching the movie with his Vader mask on because he can't get enough of how it amplifies his breath. He ignores the irony that the costume belongs to Coach Winchester.

He joins her at the door, grinning at the wide, terrified eyes of the tiny lobster and princess who hold out half-full plastic cauldrons.

"You can each take two." Jo holds the bowl low enough for them to help themselves.

The parents tell the kids to say thank you. They repeat it like the little automatons they are and skip off to the next house. Dean chuckles and watches them down the walkway. As Jo closes the door, he asks, "When do your folks get home?"

"When they feel like it because they're both adults." She trudges back to the living room and drops the bowl on the coffee table so hard that half the candy sloshes over the sides.

Dean raises his mask. "You're just going to be mad about this forever?"

"Or until you stop going out with my brother."

"I'm not…" He sighs. "It's not like that anymore."

Jo plants her fists on her hips and glares in a way that is improbably fierce for such a petite girl. "If a guy was coming to pick me up and take me to a party and we had fucked like two days before..."

Dean stops mid-stride, flinching at her choice of language.

"I'm sorry. I would call that a date." She tosses her mask onto the massacred candy and crosses her arms. "And if the guy was ten years older than me, I would say he was a freak. I don't care how legal it is. Sam is a freak for wanting you."

"I'm not arguing with that."

Jo sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes. When Dean's phone starts to buzz in his pocket, she scowls at it like it's a hand grenade. "It's weird."

"It's not weird." Dean types in a reply. "And the weird part's over anyway."

"Then don't go." Her offense is already crumbling. Her breath hitches, voice falters. "Stay with me. We can watch Freddy movies, like, all night."

Dean smiles. "I'm only going because I said I would. I won't be gone long. We can keep watching Freddy when I get back."

As if Dean's mouth and his eyes aren't already distracting enough, the mask leaves only those features and his square jaw visible. Sam's thumb runs over his lower lip. "God."

Dean jerks away from the touch. "Hey."

"Sorry," Sam says. "You look amazing."

"Yeah, well. Charlie is a genius." Dean curls and unfurls his fist and then runs his gloved hand down the chest armor of a suit identical to Bale's in Dark Knight - complete with Kevlar. "What the hell did you pay for this?"

"Don't know. They were a package deal."

Dean grins over at him. "You look insane. You know that, right?"

"Charlie asked me which Robin. I had no idea, so I told her she should pick. I guess now we know she has a sense of humor." Sam pulls at the elastic around the thigh of his green briefs - because that's what they are - briefs. He scratches his calf in one of the many places the flesh colored tights itch his leg hairs.

"So, what have you told these people?"

"Nothing. And they won't ask." Sam checks through the rearview mirror while he backs into a parking space in the company garage. "You want to be brothers?"

Dean shrugs.

"That's fine. If that's what you want," Sam says, amazed his voice doesn't break and that he doesn't crack into a million jagged pieces.

Dean scratches his chin and inhales loudly.

"Is that what you want?"

Dean knocks his gloves against the suit, making a deep, hollow sound. "Let's just do this."

As they walk, Sam reaches for the small of his back. Dean rolls back his shoulders and steps aside. "Look…"

Sam huffs and holds his hands up, like an apprehended criminal. "I'm sorry."

Dean could have very easily backed out altogether, and Sam is just glad to have him here. He keeps reminding himself of that and forgetting that he promised not to touch.

A few women are dancing to The Monster Mash. Mrs. Mosely, who is dressed like a jar of creamy Jif peanut butter, waves her hand, and two-steps right over to them. "Hey, Sam. Hello, Sam's date."

Dean looks like he's swallowed a whole, living frog. "I'm … not his date."

She lets out a high-pitched laugh and rests a hand on Dean's arm. "For a second, I thought you were going to say, 'I'm Batman.'"

Dean chuckles but remains more stilted than Sam has ever seen him.

"Well, we're glad you finally brought Sam out. He never comes to these things. I had assumed he just didn't like us."

Richard Roman from HR sidles up alongside Mrs. Mosely with his hand on her shoulder. "I always figured the job was just a cover. Proven correct, although I would not have guessed he was Robin."

The man has the smile of a rat, but the way he laughs with Mrs. Mosely makes him a little more human. The handwritten sign safety-pinned to Richard's shirt reads: 'Welch's Jelly.'

"I always thought you were a spy. Hi, I'm Amelia. Wicked costume."

Dean shakes her hand. Sam can't tell what she's supposed to be, but he does notice Dean's eyes flick over her slight form. Maybe he's just checking out her costume, too. Sam purses his lips into a tight line as Mrs. Mosely goes on with introductions. "This is Sam's date. What was your name, honey?"

Dean's mouth falls open, and she grins.

A man who Sam knows is named Rufus, but has never actually spoken to, joins the small crowd gathering around them. "Winchester showed up and brought a date. I didn't know you were gay, man. Hey, Carmen look who's here."

"Winchester?"

Sam has never spoken with most of them.

Mrs. Mosely exchanges a knowing glance with Richard who asks, "So, is this a first date or a second date? It's kind of hard to read?"

"It's not a date."

Sam isn't sure what comes over him, but he wraps an arm around Dean's waist and plants a kiss on his ear, or where Dean's ear must be, well below the bat ears. Even with the mask on, the blush creeping prettily over his skin is plain as day. Dean elbows him in the ribs, and Sam lets him go.

But the damage is done.

Mrs. Mosely and Carmen coo in unison. Richard Roman clears his throat and is suddenly riveted by his drink. Amelia lowers her eyes and mumbles something about the restroom. Rufus raises his cup to them in a toast.

"I think I need some of that." Dean makes a beeline for the snack table.

"Don't worry. He'll loosen up," Mrs. Mosely says.

"Why'd you keep … You know, saying that?" Sam asks.

She pats his arm. "Because I have the feeling you two are far more connected than either of you wants to admit to himself."

Sam nods. Dean downs a cup of punch and goes back for another.

"Sure is cute."

Sam grins and leans down to whisper, "Wait'll you see him without the mask."

"I just bet." She swats his arm. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Sam Winchester."

Parked outside of his parents' house with The Marriage of Figaro thrumming quietly in the background, Sam turns in his seat to ask, "What'd you think of that?"

"They seem like nice people."

"Yeah, they do." Sam can't remember the last time he's had friends.

Not that his co-workers immediately qualify as that, but it's a welcome change just to have fun and not worry… about anything. Now, if Dean would only let Sam kiss him, all would be right with the world again.

The kid knocks against his chest, knuckles rapping loudly against his suit. "Thanks for ... this was awesome."

"Of course. I thought you would like it."

Dean nods. "If you want to wait, I'll change out of it -"

"It's for you." Sam runs his fingers over the point of the bat ears. "There's nothing I can do with it. You probably won't even fit it next year. It was just a one-time thing."

Dean takes off the mask and frowns down at it. His hair is all matted down. Sam ruffles his hands over Dean's scalp to revive it.

"Sam, stop," he demands, still staring at the mask. "I can't pay you back."

"Dean."

"I mean, you spent all this money and -"

"Dean."

"There's not really anything I can do to …"

Sam lays a hand on his. Dean looks at it but doesn't move. That's progress. "Dean. If they're… if our parents are telling the truth, we're half brothers. But why? Why would my father not just tell my mom and get it off his chest? Why keep it this huge secret? Because it's bullshit. It's his way to … He's just trying to keep us apart." There's no subtle way to say this, so Sam just lets it out. "But even if you were my brother, I don't really care. I want you. More than anything."

Dean still doesn't move. He stares straight ahead out of the windshield. "Starting to believe in Murphy's Law."

Sam huffs, hoping the joke means Dean is coming around. It's hard to tell when he won't meet Sam's eyes.

"You know what's funny? When I was a little kid, I always wished I had a brother. 'More than anything.' Figured, it'd be cool to have someone to help me keep Jody out of trouble. She's a fucking trouble magnet, you know? It seems to me that having a brother would be even better than ... whatever we were doing … because brothers is bone-deep. Forever. Right?"

"Yeah," Sam says, more to humor him than anything else.

"But we're not really brothers, are we?"

"I'll be anything you need."

Dean's hand slips out from under Sam's. "I don't need anything. I didn't have a father, a brother, whatever we were, I didn't have any of that before we got here and I was fine."

"I wasn't." Sam's throat closes, his heart twists. His whole body aches with the effort of trying to make Dean hear him. "I wasn't fine before you. And whatever we are ... is everything to me. Lovers? Brothers? We could be forever, Dean."

"Good night, Sam." He gets out of the car like he hasn't heard a word.

Sam startles at the sharp sound of the door closing. He sits still for a moment, trying to collect himself. His face stings. He takes a deep breath. Does not want to cry. Through the passenger's window, he watches Dean near the front door. Then, he practically dives out of the car, leaving the driver's door hanging open. "Hey!"

Brisk steps carry him swiftly up the walkway.

Dean turns around and sucks his teeth. "What?"

Sam's hand brushes over his cheek. "I think we should …"

'I think we should do what makes us happy, because that's too rare and too precious and I've never had it before, and I'm too selfish to give it up.'

None of the words come out. They well up in Sam's throat and threaten to choke the life out of him.

"Stop being so fucking dramatic, man. There's other dicks out there."

"Don't do this."

Dean presses the bat mask in Sam's outstretched hands and leaves him alone on the porch in the dark.

Dean runs up the stairs, pins his back to the bedroom door and slides to the floor. The bat suit is restrictive as fuck in this position. That has to be why it's so hard to breathe.

He nearly pops his shoulder out of the socket, contorting to unzip and get himself out of the damn thing. When he's finally free, he leaves it on the floor and trudges, naked, to the bed. He doesn't answer his phone. He just sits there, staring at the wall.

There's obviously no God, so this whole thing must be a cosmic joke. The more he wants Sam, the more clear it becomes that Dean can't have him. There comes a point, no matter how much you want something when you throw in the towel, if only to preserve what's left of your fucking sanity.

He should have listened to his mother and not let himself get all caught up in this emotional bullshit.

Jody.

Dean still hasn't heard a peep from her. The only time he'd gone more than 24 hours without talking to her was when he was locked up and when he was with Sam. Once she figures out where to stop next, she'll burn the old phone, switch numbers and Dean won't be able to get in touch with her. He won't be able to check in and hear that she's all right.

She's not the type to look back after she's made a decision, never went crawling back to any of her string of bad choice boyfriends. Just on to the next one. She won't be calling to check up on Dean. It's not her style. Jody raised him to be the same way. He should be over her and over Sam, but he's not.

If he hears her voice, maybe he can get to sleep.

When the nonstop buzzing from Sam's calls finally ends, Dean picks up the phone.

Jody answers on the second ring. The wind whistles loudly behind her. "You okay?"

"No."

Sam hangs his cape on a hook by the front door. The apartment is dark except for a weak light coming from the living room. Squinting, Sam follows it. Castiel sits with his legs folded on the sofa with his head slumped forward, almost certainly drunk.

"If you're tired, go to-" Sam shuts his eyes for just a moment to let the cold rush over him.

He kneels before Castiel and pries the box cutter from his hand. It's covered in blood, as are his fingers, his jaw, and his bare chest. In the glow of the computer screen, the wound is plain to see. Sam shakes his head, eyes crinkling in pain he can't feel, but feels he's caused. "Jesus, Cas."

An overturned and empty bottle of Smirnoff tells at least part of the evening's tale.

Sam places a finger under Castiel's chin so he can lift his face and examine the inch-long gash he's carved into the left corner of his mouth.

"Castiel?"

Cas' eyes flutter open, he attempts to smile and whimpers. He shuts Sam out again.

Once again, he's hacked into Sam's laptop. The calendar is a small window in the upper left corner of the screen. Today's date and appointments are superimposed over a photo on the company Facebook page. Batman and a much-taller Robin smile awkwardly for the camera, sandwiched between a deeply grinning jar of peanut butter and whatever Amelia was supposed to be.

"We need to go to the emergency room."

"No." Castiel's eyes remain closed as he sucks in a gasp of air. Talking must be agony.

"Castiel," Sam repeats, unsure of what else to say.

Laughter decays into sobs. Castiel's face contorts in a grotesque blend of levity and pain, tugging at the laceration and causing it to bleed a fresh stream down his chin. "Just let me die."

"Would you stop it?" Still kneeling, Sam searches for anything to stop the bleeding. Finding only sofa pillows, he throws up his hands and sprints into the kitchen for a clean dish rag.

On his knees before him again, Sam squeezes Castiel's thigh. "You're not going to die. It's just ... It's going to ruin your smile. You have a beautiful smile, Castiel, and it would be a shame."

Cas' eyes flicker open, tears flowing freely down his twisted face.

"Can I, please, take you to the ER?" Sam says. "Let me take care of you."

Finally, Castiel nods and drops his head. While Sam helps him to his feet, he murmurs out of the side of his disfigured mouth, "In what universe would Robin be half a foot taller than Batman, you couple of morons?"


	26. Chapter 26

Jody steals another fry before she drags the red basket of fries across the table in front of her. Dean just blinks. She's waiting for him to make a big stink about her messing with his food, but he doesn't have it in him.

"You know, you begged me to come back for you."

He nods.

"Let me guess. Now you want to go back?"

"No." It's a flat out lie. They both know it. At the same time, he never wants to go back there again. "I just don't understand why all this time-"

"I didn't know where to look, Dean. Okay?" She closes her eyes and scratches her eyebrow. "We didn't exactly … play Truth or Dare. All I had to go on was an ex-marine named John. The fact that we found him the way we did is -"

Dean shoves the plate of half-eaten burger at her. "Just forget it, okay? Let's drop it."

"Fine. Dropped. Now, you stop acting like a zombie."

"Fine." He flashes a huge, fake smile that fades as quickly as he put it on.

He has a single sip of flavorless soda, before he curls up his nose and pushes that away, too. His guts are rotten, and sugar just reminds him of Sam.

As soon as Sam reaches the foot of the marble staircase, he squints up at the imposing building, spins on his heels, and tries to walk away. Castiel blocks his path with a hand in the center of his chest. "No. You said if I made the date..."

"Cas. I can't. I need him here."

Dean wasn't supposed to go. He was supposed to be there the next day, so they could talk through whatever was troubling him. Sam was only giving him a night, some space and the next morning, Dean was just gone.

Sam's parents hadn't even realized that he'd left until Sam stopped by for breakfast. All of the clothes and gifts were lined up neatly on the bed: the suit, the coat, all of it. Jo and his parents didn't know the significance of that. Only Sam. And it was as loud a GoodBye as he had ever heard.

"He's gone, Sam. You need to get on with your life." Castiel tugs on his sleeve. "You swore. You owe this to me, Sam. You said yourself, you owe me."

Sam allows himself to be led through the metal detectors, as if to slaughter. Cas doesn't have to look the room number up on the board. He already knows the correct floor and hits the button in the elevator. Clinging to Sam's arm, he straightens Sam's tie and stands on his tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The other people in the elevator actively do not stare at them, except for a little boy who says, "Mommy…"

The child's mother shushes him and squeezes his hand until he yelps in pain. Sam looks down and meets the boy's eyes, unsure whether he feels worse for the kid or himself.

Mrs. Moseley stands when they enter the room. She has a bouquet of red carnations and an appropriately sad look on her face. The expression changes from pity to confusion when she sees Sam's hand in Castiel's.

Sam purses his lips. If he tried to explain, he would choke on the words and die. Her feedback and approval are unnecessary anyway. All he needs is her signature.

On the very short list of people of whom he could have made this request, Mrs. Mosely had been the one to come through for him.

His father was out, for obvious reasons. His mother hasn't spoken to him in a month.

While Sam was alone in his old bedroom with Dean, his mother had been booking a plane to Orlando. She and Jo had visited Ruby and Luna the very next day. Even Sam's father has met the little girl.

Sam hasn't gone down there because he can't. That's what his mother doesn't or won't accept, the reason she's so upset with him. Sam cannot allow his daughter's first impression to be that her father is going through a personal crisis. He will go to meet her, as soon as he gets himself together. When will that be? He has no idea. Not today.

He'd even asked Charlie.

She had been ecstatic at first, assuming that he was marrying Dean. Sam had been struck speechless long enough for her to start verbally making plans for their suits. Eventually, he managed to find his voice and derail that train of thought. Despite her obvious disappointment, she agreed to come to dinner and meet the groom to be.

Charlie and Val had been at the apartment a little under fifteen minutes before she stood up, looked Sam in the eye and said, "Marriage is not to be taken lightly. And certainly not by our people." Then she left.

Mrs. Mosely had not been on the original list at all, but being out of options, Sam had asked and she'd agreed. Granted, he'd embellished a bit (a lot) and told her that his family was unaccepting of the marriage. It was, technically, true and better than Sam's original idea, which had been to tell her they were all dead.

Castiel releases Sam's arm to accept the flowers with both hands, burying his simpering face in the scentless blossoms.

Sam hadn't noticed Richard Roman seated with one leg crossed over the other, watching the scene. He nods at Sam. She waves a hand at him. "You know Dick."

Cas snickers like a 6th grader. The staples have come out of his cheek, and the wound has healed as inconspicuously as could be hoped for. It's barely visible, except for when he grins like this. "I don't know dick."

That's as far into the rabbit hole as they descend before the clerk calls their names, "Samuel Winchester, Castile Novak," pronouncing Cas' name like the Spanish province.

No one corrects him. Castiel stands there bouncing on his toes and grinning like a child with a shiny new toy. He hands Mrs. Mosely the flowers when it's time for him to sign.

The day Sam met Dean, the kid had come bounding out of his parents' house with his right hand extended and this cocky smile on his impossibly perfect face. His eyes had reflected the sunlight like gems. It was alarming, really, how beautiful he was. Sam had taken one look at him and known; this is the kind of boy who makes a wreck out of people.

The judge and Cas stare at him. Mrs. Mosely and Richard Roman, too. They're all waiting for something, but he's not sure what. The clerk taps on the page where the X marks the spot. Sam blinks down at the pen in his hand.

"Mr. Winchester? Right here, please."

Castiel is not breathing at all. There was, literally, no one he could ask. His list of potential witnesses had no entries at all. Castiel is alone if not for Sam. In the end, that is the reason he signs his name.

Every time he gets on a computer, Dean checks Castiel's page. He checks Mary Winchester's, too and Jo's. He's not FB Friends with them or anything. In fact, the only person he's friended is his mother. It's pathetic. All the other kids are on Instagram and Snapchat, but it's too easy to be careless with that crap. Plus, there's no point when you don't have any actual friends.

Is it embarrassing to be trolling for pictures of Sam? Yes, it is. But nobody knows that's what he's doing except for Dean, so, it's only internal humiliation.

When he doesn't find any new ones, he returns to the one on his own page. He'd taken it without Sam's permission. Just a heat of the moment thing, too exquisite not to capture. Dean had put it on his page right before his mother made him burn the phone. And Sam'll never know. He doesn't even have a profile.

Dean spends the remaining half hour on the library computer just staring at Sam's sleeping face.

Sam is sprawled out with a looseness borrowed from his memory of Dean.

Castiel shakes the two bottles as if he's playing maracas in a Mariachi band. "Orange or yellow, my dear?" He pours one of each into his palm and sets the containers on the bedside table.

He holds his pills to Sam's mouth. Sam swats the hand away, and they scatter to the floor. He scratches at his itchy, unshaven face. There's no relief, though, so he helps himself to another fistful of Doritos, ignoring the crumbs that fall into his beard. He wipes the orange residue from his fingers onto his t-shirt and uses the remote to turn up the TV.

Castiel picks up Sam's soda and scrutinizes it like he's never seen an aluminum can. His eyes flicker over the candy wrappers on the bed. "Sammy."

Sam turns the volume up so loud that the onscreen sirens and gunfire rattle his eardrums. He has no idea what he's watching, but anything is better than listening to Castiel's voice.

Sam hasn't even gotten around to calling in to quit work. He's only left the bed to go to the bathroom and get more of this crap to abuse himself with.

It's not a problem. He has enough money saved to survive for years doing nothing other than what he's doing right now. Then, he can live on the street.

Dean Jones steps through the double doors and takes a deep breath. It's too late in the season to join the team. Still, he has survived his first two weeks at Roosevelt High and a Friday afternoon detention. Even the sharp stink of cigarette smoke can't ruin the crisp autumn air.

The girl has dark, shoulder-length hair and tight jean skirt. She's leaned against the wall, smoking like she thinks it makes her hotter. Dean nods more out of habit than intention. The corner of her brick red lip curls up in invitation. He has nowhere to be, so he turns up the collar on his too-thin jacket and swaggers over, real slow.

Dean watches her honey-brown eyes sweeping over his body with every step. The rush he gets when someone wants him is not adrenaline, but it's powerful. Makes him feel invincible. Alive. Real. And talking to some random girl is a welcome distraction from thinking about Sam every waking minute of every goddamn day.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

She smiles and looks down at the grass as if there's any chance that she won't give him her name and anything else he wants. "Lisa."

"Hello, Lisa."

She snickers and takes out her pack of cigarettes. "You smoke?"

He considers the options for about two seconds before he holds out his hand and says, "Sure."

Sam is clean-shaven, properly dressed, and dutifully scooping spoonfuls of unsweetened oatmeal into his mouth. The body is a machine. A machine requires proper fuel.

After two weeks of binging on junk food and worse television, Sam has experienced everything from flu-like symptoms to astral projections. He has finally reached the conclusion that he has to get himself together. He had arrived at said conclusion immediately after waking in a cold sweat to discover a vigorous GummiBears orgy taking place on his mattress. Sam promptly vomited on them, and they dissolved like tiny, multicolored wicked witches of the west.

In that same moment, he dragged himself to the bathroom, regurgitated more of the poison from his system and took an hour long shower.

He doesn't feel any better today than he did yesterday or the day before, but he is resolved to function, regardless.

Castiel enters the kitchen wearing his Chinese robe. He tilts his head, almost sheepishly. "I have another meeting today."

Sam nods.

Castiel helps himself to a spoonful of Sam's breakfast. "They say we can bring someone, if…"

"I can't."

Sam's sanity is tenuous at best. The last thing he needs is to walk into a den of self-proclaimed lunatics.

Back behind his desk, Sam fires up his computer and sees he's received a link from Mrs. Mosely.

The dirty-faced girl on the charity's website holds out a candle. Sam clicks the button to complete his transaction.

All right, God. If you're out there. I do this; you bring him back to me.

Please.

Amen.

When there's too much time and quiet like this, Dean lays in his cot and thinks of Jo and how she used to wait for him beside his locker. And Mrs. Winchester teaching him how to slice onions without crying all over them. He thinks of all the stupid lectures Coach Winchester gave him personally, not just the team. He thinks of Coach Winchester as his coach, not as his father. Dean doesn't go anywhere near that thought, except when he can't help it. That's when he finds something to do with his hands, legal or otherwise.

He thinks of Mildred's tea. Garth's cokes. He hopes Ash is leaving him the hell alone and wonders how the team is doing.

Mostly, though, Dean lays with an arm over his eyes, and his face pinched tight, thinking about Sam's goofy grin during that stupid hot air balloon ride and his hair whipping around his face when the afternoon was warm enough to ride with the windows open. The thought of that fucking kiss on that fucking bridge makes his whole body buzz. Sam rooting around between his legs to get rid of that tick. And Sam, after the fight, looking at Dean like he was made out of spun glass and saying that... Saying what he had said. And how whenever Dean would glance over in the car, Sam would have this placid smile on his face like nothing could ever get to them or get between them, as long as they just kept rolling.

The worst of it is when Dean wonders how it would have been if they had never come back. If they had just kept driving through Missouri, headed east, south, north or gone all the way west. Anywhere but back to Castiel and Jody and Jo and the coach and everything that went haywire.

What would Mildred say? 'Yeah. It sucks. Now, suck it up.'

Dean chuckles through the hurt. He heaves his ass off the cot with a heavy groan and makes his way into the common room. At least there's no school.

He lounges on the couch between toothless Aggie and Ethel who always smells like pee. They make the best commentary about the soaps, though, and they love him to death. Right now, he has his feet up on the rickety coffee table and eats stale chocolate courtesy of Aggie's linty pocket.

Somebody behind the sofa claps his shoulder. "Come on. We need your help with this."

"Can't it wait?" Without turning around, he knows it's Rod, who runs the kitchen and is one of those sweater-wearing Christians Dean loves to hate for all their do-goodery.

"Not really. Come on." He pats Dean's back again.

"Pardon me, ladies."

The second he steps out into the blistering wind, Dean wishes he hadn't left every single gift he got from Sam in the Winchester's house. He could certainly put that winter coat to good use right about now.

He spends the rest of the afternoon lugging 20 lbs. frozen turkeys into the kitchen, thanks to some magnanimous asshole who has totally ruined Days of our Lives and Dean's entire snow day.

FROM: IGetFabulous

TO:

Hey Sam,

Took forever, I know. Finally got them up.

Thanks again!

You two are crazy hawwwt. We should totally do an XXXmas shoot. (JK)

Or at very least, spring. Okay?

Say yes. Dean, make him say yes.

Here's a link to the whole batch: /share/folders/1463

PS: Did you take any of the beautiful boy in the batsuit?

\- Charlie

Sam scrolls through all of the photos, his breath shallow, lashes failing to beat back tears. He pauses the slideshow on one where he's leaning down, kissing Dean's cheek. The kid has this mischievous, devil-may-care smirk on his face.

Someone approaches from behind, and Sam shuts the browser in a rush, as if he's looking at something unsuitable for work.

Lisa's hair is almost right. It's more of a solid brown with none of the gold and bronze that shone in Sam's, especially out under the sun. But in dim or artificially light, the color is almost the same.

Everything else about her is a writhing, whimpering mistake.

Her sighs are pitched too high. Her perfume is too flower-sweet, lips taste like watermelons and Lucky Strikes instead of that bitter tea crap that was always on Sam's tongue. Her tits and just her whole body is too soft. That's usually nice, but no it just makes him want to scream.

The girl on the other side of Lisa in the back seat sulks. "Would you two get a fucking room?"

Dean closes his eyes and tries to get lost in Lisa's vice-tight grip. He arches his hips up into the punishment of her touch. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in a sharp breath through his nose, chokes back Sam's name and dribbles come over her too-small palm.

Cas stands with one hand on each side of the door frame. He's wearing a white lace teddy, elbow-length gloves, thigh-high stockings, garter straps and white heels. He waits for Sam's reaction.

"Did I buy that?"

Cas nods. "Wedding present. I was waiting until I thought you could appreciate it."

"You're welcome."

"You like it?"

Sam looks again. The outfit suits Castiel. It fits well. He seems comfortable in it. It's obviously of a high-quality material, not made in China or bought off the rack and definitely fashioned by hand, with care. It's quite possibly one of Charlie's masterpieces. Sam nods. "You look nice."

"Nice." Cas repeats thoughtfully, as if he's collecting for a word bank.

He stands at the foot of the bed. Sam has always appreciated fine art, so he watches Castiel dance.

And he considers himself fortunate to have a private show provided by such a gifted performer. The movements appear to be eastern inspired, perhaps a blend of Indian classical and belly dance. It's really amazing the way Cas can twist his wrists and curl his spine and sway his hips. He raises both arms above his head. Such a supple man. He must really have been something in his Broadway days. Sam hasn't been to a show in ages. Always did enjoy a musical.

Cas crawls onto the bed. He cups his hand over Sam's indifferent crotch. Undeterred, he continues to stalk up Sam's supine body until he can kiss him long and languid. Sam doesn't push him away or return the kiss. He accepts the affection as if it were part of the dance recital.

Castiel straddles his hips, plants himself squarely on Sam's cock. He rubs a gloved hand down his face and sighs. "Were you ever actually attracted to me?"

"Absolutely."

"And now?"

"You already know."

"You're a one at a time kind of boy." Castiel drops himself onto the bed beside Sam. "You know what? I'm not in any fucking mood for it anyway. These stupid pills."

Sam keeps his relief to himself. "But you feel better, otherwise, right?"

"I don't feel anything."

Sam searches Cas' face. "Is that good?"

"Sometimes. Like right now? Yeah, probably. I think I miss you or I know I should. But I..." He shrugs.

That sounds so good, Sam is tempted to ask what Cas is taking. Maybe he could get a prescription for himself.

"Tell me something, Sam. What is it about him, besides the obvious?"

'The obvious' - Sam assumes are Dean's looks or his youth, but Cas got to know him. How could anyone not adore his brashness and his sense of humor, his confidence or his kindness, his endearing fear of vulnerability or his earnestness, or his keen appetites for food and sex and entertainment? Dean was far from perfect, but he had pursued Sam before he knew about all of the man's many flaws and he had still wanted him, even after they were all out in the open.

Goodness knows they'd had odds stacked against them, but there was some undeniable connection. They should have been able to weather anything, and yet, Dean is God knows where and Sam isn't even sure which straw had broken the camel's back.

"Well?" Cas asks.

"Everything."

Castiel doesn't rage or punch or scream, like he would have done before the prescriptions. He just sighs. "What are you watching?"

Sam shrugs at the screen. They watch in silence for a while until Sam hands over the remote. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. At the very least, he's not alone.

Lisa squeals, claps, jumps up and down like she just struck the lotto. She pulls on Dean, rubbing her tits against his arm and trying to get him to smile. He chuckles, but his pubes are all stuck together in coagulated come. The only thing that would make him almost happy would be to go home and take a shower.

But the shelter closes at 10:00 PM, so he's stuck with these guys. Lisa has promised him a place to crash tonight, which is cool. It'll be good to sleep in an actual bed. Just about anything will be better than the pissed-in children's cot, surrounded by sniffling, sneezing little kids. Not that Dean minds the kids. Some of them are actually pretty cute, which is why he hates to see them growing up like he did.

But in exchange for the luxury of a real bed and the break from his real life, he has to spend the rest of the night with this band of hooligans.

"Shhh," Dean whispers like an old man.

Apparently, he's outgrown his years of junior delinquency, because he finds no pleasure in breaking into this garage, trashing some stranger's baby blue Jaguar. It's a beautiful car, and it seems like an awful waste. "Do you know this guy?"

Lisa's brother, Carl, steps back from his handiwork. The hood glistens with egg. One of the other guys spray paints the passenger's door. The rattle and hiss of the can grate on Dean's nerves.

"It's Peterson. Fucking douche failed me last quarter."

Well, that settles it, then. Since Carl certainly seems like the type to have studied, prepared and participated in class, Peterson failing him can only be a result of the man being a douche.

Dean keeps looking over his shoulder at the open garage door. Five-o could show up any minute. He is not trying to get locked up for this stupidity. He sighs and skulks around to the other side of the car to check out what work of art is taking so long. This guy has drawn an oozing dick that takes up most of the side panel. Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Are we done here?"

Lisa tucks herself under his arm. Carl kicks the car once as they leave the garage. Dean glances back over his shoulder and catches sight of the rainbow sticker on the rear bumper.

Sam's knee bounces like he's had ten cups of coffee instead of just the one. That was already a bad idea. It had been a way to help him pass the interminable hour he's been waiting since he finished filling out the paperwork.

Detective Ramsey reminds him of Rufus from work, with his dark skin and jocular demeanor. It fails to put Sam at ease. The man still isn't back, and Sam's patience is rapidly dwindling. He hops out of his chair again and stares at the faces on the Most Wanted posters. He pores over them, unable to focus on a single one. Then, he slumps back down in the chair and runs his hand over his face.

"Mr. Winchester."

He leaps to his feet the moment the detective enters the office.

"I just spoke with your father. According to him, the boy is not missing. He's with his mother, who has full custody."

"No, that's not…" Sam's eyes search the room as if he'll find anything to explain the urgency of his situation.

"I'm afraid there's nothing we can do."

Sam grips the back of the chair he had been sitting in. It rattles in his hands, making a loud racket against the tile floor. "She isn't fit. She's…"

"Sir. Why don't you go buy yourself a tree?" The detective's hand slides over to the holster on his hip.

Sam has no control over the forward tilt of his head as if he was some wild creature with horns. He does not intend to lower his voice into a growl. Caffeine is not his friend. "You don't understand."

"No, I don't, but there isn't anything more I can do for you. As far as we're concerned, your brother isn't missing. I'm sorry. Merry Christmas to you." Ramsey holds the door open.

Sam knocks the chair onto its back and charges the man, even as the detective reaches for his gun. Years of self-defense training kick in as Sam chops his forearm down against the rising wrist, causing the officer to drop his weapon. He knocks the man back against a wall.

Just as suddenly, he raises his hands, first in front of his chest and then, clear to the ceiling. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh, God."

Lo and behold, Dean has gotten what he was after. Sort of.

On Cas' FB page, there's a picture of Sam. With Castiel. They're both dressed up like somebody just died. Cas in a white suit and Sam dressed up in black. Castiel's smile is huge, and his eyes are closed. Something is different about his face, but Dean can't quite tell what it is in this shot. One thing hasn't changed: he is clinging to Sam for dear life. Sam looks as strong and stoic as ever. He's growing a beard. It looks good.

It's Cas' profile picture, and his marital status has changed.

A heatwave flashes through Dean like a lethal dose of radiation.

So, that's that.

Dean's is the first response to the picture. He types 'congrats.'

Then, he picks up his shit and leaves the library.

Sam lays on his stomach with his face buried in a smelly government-issue pillow that grates against his cheek. The cot is too short; the toes of his shoes hang off the end. The door to his holding cell beeps open with a loud, metallic click. He doesn't budge, even when he hears the footsteps slowly approach.

"Should I ask or just assume?"

He bristles at, but doesn't look up to see, his father's face. He can smell the alcohol from across the room.

Sam takes a moment to sift through potential answers, props up on his elbows and scrubs his face with both hands. There's a bass drum pounding behind his right eye. A few deep calming breaths are of no help at all. He whispers, "Do you know where he is?"

"The way you're acting, I wouldn't tell you even if I did." His father says. "What the hell is wrong with you? Attacked an officer? Are you on drugs or something? You're lucky I talked this Ramsey guy down. You could be looking at some pretty serious charges."

Sam sits up and tosses his feet onto the floor. He presses his chin to his chest, hands clasped between his knees. Wishes he was on drugs. Maybe that would help.

"Sam, the thing with you and Dean, it's all kinds of wrong. Even you've got to see that."

The logic is sound; there's no point arguing. "I just want to be sure he's okay. His mother's not... She's not mom, you know."

"He's survived this long, hasn't he?"

"You didn't see the way they live." Sam finally looks up and meets his father's bloodshot eyes.

Sam knows the look. John W. is about two beers way from being shit-faced. Sam wishes he could drink. Maybe he should try it and just see what happens. He rolls his lips together and drops his face again.

"It was his choice. There's nothing you can do about it."

Dean stamps out his cigarette and walks into the salon. His mother nods at him. "Why aren't you school?"

"Don't fucking feel like it."

"You skip, and you come here? Little idiot." She shakes her head and holds out a broom.

He sweeps without protest. The woman behind the counter never even looks up at him.

Castiel drops his laptop on Sam's desk, on top of his work, right in his face without saying a word. Sam is on the cusp of complaining until he actually takes a look at what Castiel is trying to show him. A hand flies to his mouth to contain the excited shriek behind his lips.

"Wait." Sam's eyes narrow. "Why are you showing me this?"

For a moment, Castiel's eyes trail between Sam and the computer. He finally sighs and says, "I want you to find him."

"You want me to find him?"

"Maybe…" Castiel takes a breath. "If I see you with him again, I'll wake up."

Sam takes his hand. "Maybe we need to have someone take a look at your prescription."

Cas nods, batting his lashes as if they weigh a ton apiece, and leaves the room.

An hour later, the computer bounces on Sam's knee. He can't keep still. He's created his own profile and watches the screen, waiting for D Wayne to accept his friend request.

It has to be Dean, although there aren't any pictures of him or anything that might indicate where he is. Of course, Dean wouldn't post any of that. The most recent shot is of a prodigious stack of waffles. On closer examination, Sam is fairly certain that photo was taken in his parents' house. That was posted 9 weeks ago, which would be before Dean left.

There hasn't been any activity since then. Still, he has to be checking in regularly. He had seen Cas' post and responded. That means, eventually, he'll see Sam's request.

Sam scrolls through Dean's photos. There is a lot of food, some blurry ones of driving past things, like a field of cows or a billboard. Scrolling back, he finds a photo of Larry, the mechanical bull, one of Carl, the farmer next to a huge pumpkin, and one of the Mark Twain impersonator.

Sam hadn't even noticed Dean taking these shots. He certainly doesn't recognize the one of himself laid out on a pillow with his hair splayed every which way. There's a soft smile on his face, like he's dreaming about something delightful. It's the first photo Sam has ever seen of himself in which he looks genuinely happy. The longer he looks, the closer he comes to finding what Dean had seen in him that first day. Sam huffs and tries to type a comment, but finds he can't because they're not yet friends.

While he's waiting, Sam decides to post the photos from Charlie to his page. The idea that Dean will be seeing them sends a warm thrill through him. Sam smiles as he uploads every single shot of the 103 pictures from the photoshoot. The profile pic is an obvious choice.

Dean cringes, crushing the flare that shoots through him at the picture of Sam nuzzling his cheek. One day it's Castiel's wedding announcement; the next day, it's this. A thousand miles away and they still manage to fuck with his head.

He grits his teeth in cold, hard determination. It only takes one more button to confirm account deletion. Dean clicks it, logs out of the computer, and leaves the library groaning at all the fake holly and stupid fucking lights.


	27. Chapter 27

Sam's mother looks down at the broken angel in her hands. Sam and Castiel have righted the tree, but some damage is irreparable. Jo collects the other ornaments from the floor and redecorates the boughs while their father, who knocked it down in the first place, stumbles toward and slumps into his chair.

"Shall we…" Sam's mother clears her throat. "How about we open presents now?"

She's hardly looked at him, while his sister hasn't stopped glaring. His father's hand falls limp from the armrest, but the bottle of Johnnie Walker remains safely tucked between his legs. Castiel raises his eyebrows but makes no commentary, which is its own Christmas miracle.

This is not how Sam remembers Christmas at home. Whatever happened to the living Nativities, The Nutcracker, the roasting chestnuts? Sam's father used to wear an authentic Santa suit, which is only slightly awkward to think about considering some of the acts Sam has performed as Santa himself.

Sam and Castiel's Christmas celebrations generally consisted of Sam receiving a costume as foreplay. The first year it was Santa and the Naughty Kid, a scene in which, instead of coal, the iconic imp gets ploughed by Father Christmas. The following year, Cas wanted them to play Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Then, they were Rudolf and an elf. Charlie Brown and Linus was actually surprisingly hot.

For the past six years, Christmas without his family had damn near reduced Sam to tears. Now, he's asking himself whether any of those idyllic memories had any basis in reality.

"JoAnna." Sam's mother hands the incessantly moping teenager a small, rectangular box.

She holds out an immaculately wrapped box in purple paper and says, "Castiel."

Cas covers his heart with his hand and glances at Sam, who knows it's been decades since Cas has seen his mother. He shakes the gift next to his ear with a small smile that wasn't wrecked by the cut, after all. What's left of his brilliant grin is a shadow of its former sparkle. Sam does not miss the worst of Castiel, but the best of him is sedated, too.

Sam's mom frowns at the scar on Cas' cheek and asks, "What happened here?"

"Oh. Just… an accident."

She nods and passes an envelope to Castiel, who reads Sam's name and passes it to him.

"Are you ever going to talk to me again, mom?"

His mother rolls her eyes and picks up the next present. How much easier it would have been to just make a roast and stay at home? He could have been miserable in the comfort of his own place.

Ticket to Orlando. No surprise.

"Ruby looks amazing."

"She always did."

"She asks about you."

Castiel runs a hand down his new black leather vest, watching Sam and his mother like a tennis match. The buttons won't close around his expanding belly. It's another side effect of his medication that Sam doesn't mind, and Castiel can't stand.

"Lulu loves the dollhouse. Have you seen the pictures?"

Sam has a drink of his water. Ruby had sent a full series of videos of the little girl opening the presents she'd received from him.

"And she can't wait to meet you."

"I talk to Ruby, too, mom. I'm going to go, just… I need some time."

Castiel hands Sam the present they brought for Jo. He deliberated over this for weeks and spent three times as much money on it as anyone else's gift. Without reaching out to accept, she takes one look at it, stands up and stalks out of the room.

Speechless, Sam huffs out a breathy, humorless laugh and listens to her footsteps recede up the stairs and down the hall until her bedroom door slams.

Sam's father stirs. His mother rescues the bottle of whiskey and lifts her husband's hand from where it dangles to rest it on his lap. "She's been…like this for a while now."

She wipes her husband's sweaty brow and plants a kiss there.

"And Dad?"

"Hasn't drunk this way in a long time. I think he was looking forward to …"

'Having a son again.' Sam doesn't have to say it.

They both already know, although she doesn't know the half.

Did his father drink himself unconscious when Sam quit the game? What would his mother do if she learned the truth about Dean? What if the old man sent him away with Jody to keep her from finding out? Sam's mouth floods sour with bile when he so much as looks at the man.

"One thing is sure; Dean Smith has left a mark on all of us, hasn't he?" His mother holds up a wrapped gift with Dean's name on it.

Sam refuses to look at that, too.

After Dean had deleted his Facebook profile, Castiel sat beside Sam on the sofa and rested a cold hand on his arm. "Please, do not rip yourself to shreds over this little breeder."

Sam's bleary eyes snapped up into Castiel's sober sky-blue gaze.

"There are three possible scenarios here, Sammy. Okay? The most obvious is that he was looking for someone to take care of him. You know he had that half-starved orphan thing going? The second and equally likely is that with all his daddy issues, he just needed a good fuck to make up for lost hugs. Then, there's the fact that some straight boys like to experiment, in which case, lucky you and now, let it go. Take your pick and move on, Sam. Otherwise, you're just a creepy old guy chasing some minor and that's a new level of pathetic, even for you."

It was cruel, but the more Sam thought of it, the more accurate it felt. All of it. Every word. Why choose an explanation when it all made sense?

Since then, Sam hasn't spoken his name out loud. He deleted Charlie's pics from his computer. He has allowed Castiel back into his bed, just for the comfort of having someone near. Thanks to Cas' medication, sex never even came up. Sam takes care of himself when he needs to - usually in the shower, always thinking of Dean, sometimes in tears. He tortures himself with Pablo Neruda and Elgar's Salut d'Amour, still patiently waiting for the yearning to pass.

It'll pass. Everything does.

Sam asks, only because he can't stop himself. "Have you heard from him?"

She shakes her head and places a hand on Sam's arm. "But I'm sure wherever he is, he's doing just fine."

Even before Dean's eyes open, he winces at the sharp ache in the back of his skull. There's nothing in the room that helps him identify which no star motel he's in, but the filthy curtains, dusty furniture and tiny TV give it away.

He tries to move his arm with the intention of checking the pounding wound on his head. A metal cuff rattles against the corner of the bed. The sound echoes from all four ends where Dean's wrists and ankles have been shackled so that he's spread out like a naked starfish.

"The fuck." The rattling only becomes louder as he uselessly strains every muscle in his body to get free.

That desperate clank of metal on metal merges with the crunch of plastic. The entire bed beneath him is covered with a waterproof sheet.

"What the fuck?" Grunting, he fights against the noisy chains until he's winded. Then he gives them another firm tug until the metal to bites into his skin.

Plan A was a stupid, shock induced reaction.  
Plan B. These motel walls are paper thin.

"Anybody hear me? Hello? HELP! HELP!"

The bathroom door opens. Dean shuts up and freezes. His heart kicks up and tries to escape through his mouth.

"Quiet, pumpkin. The neighbors are sleeping."

Even with the douchey, asymmetrical leather jacket suit and impeccably slicked back coal-black hair, he hadn't expected the British accent. The man Dean has been running from his entire life shakes his square head with a smug smile.

"Hello, Dean. Jones, is it, these days?" He grins like Hannibal Lector and waves carelessly at the air. "You do realize I'm joking, of course. There are no neighbors. I've bought up this whole row of rooms. Special rates, what with the holidays and all. You may shout all you like. I rather enjoy it."

It takes every ounce of willpower in his possession, but Dean manages deep breaths as he searches the man's eyes, his nose, his mouth, his build - for traces of himself. The body type might be the same, but it would be difficult to say until a few years from now, when Dean stops growing and starts filling out.

"Like what you see?" The man unzips his jacket, drapes it over the back of a chair. "You are quite the little Romeo, aren't you? Even at a time like this." He opens and rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves. "Sadly, I'm not authorized for recreation. Pity. Though, I could call in for clearance, if you'd really like."

The man traces his pointer finger over Dean's birthmark, the one he shares in common with his mother. "Adorable, really. That she thought this would work."

"Don't you fucking touch me." Dean's head thrashes uselessly, being the only part of him he can properly move.

His captor reaches into one of those 19th-century doctor's bags and pulls out a large, black, velvet-covered cylinder. "There are, of course, many ways to entertain ourselves."

Laying the bundle on the table beside the bed, the man unties the black ribbon and slowly unfurls the package, revealing a neat row of shiny silver tools. Dean recognizes the bone saw from some bad horror movie, but most of them are of a sort he's never seen before.

He struggles against the cuffs yet again.

"I know. Exciting, right? But, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to remain patient until our guest of honor arrives." The man pats Dean's thigh and walks to the foot of the bed where he casually sits in a chair there, crossing one leg over the other.

He checks his watch. "It won't be long. Unless she's run, which would be monumentally stupid, but of course, she's done it before, hasn't she?"

The man shrugs and lowers his head, as if in prayer. Dean has to crane his neck up to see the thick book in his lap. As he does so, he narrows his eyes at the network of black lines drawn all over his own skin. "What the fuck? What is this?"

The man goes on reading as if Dean weren't even there.

"Hey. Fuckface. I'm talking to you. What the hell …."

That isn't any more effective than rattling the chains, shouting, cursing, or spitting. Apparently, the man's book is more interesting than Dean's rage.

After a few minutes, he manages to calm himself - at least on the outside. Fucking Plan C. The straight black lines that seem to divide his body into sections. "Why?"

The man looks up. "Pardon."

"Why? Why are you doing this?"

"Orders." He goes back to his book, but only for a moment before he his grey-green eyes return to Dean.

"Are you my father?"

His smile gives way to a chuckle that grows into full-scale laughter. "Forgive me. She really has done a number on you, hasn't she? Poor lad." He sighs, as if the topic already bores him. "You may call me Catch."

"Catch?"

The man spells it, slowly, as if he's speaking to a toddler. He hasn't answered Dean's question, though. Just spewed a bunch of cryptic shit.

Ketch stands, rolls his neck to stretch and crosses back to the table. There, he peels carefully off an expensive looking watch and pulls on a pair of OJ Simpson-looking leather gloves.

"You're bored, aren't you? I understand. Young, and it can be so hard to wait." Ketch picks up a scalpel and twirls it in his hand. "It's all right. We'll pass the time together."

"I am going to kill you. Just so you know." The words come out sounding 20 times more confident than Dean feels.

"Shh. Don't strain yourself." Ketch's lowers the blade to Dean's chest. "You'll want to remain very still."

Out of pure reflex, Dean sucks in his gut and holds his breath as the cold silver presses to his navel. It trails in a perfectly straight line to his dick, leaving a faint pink line over unbroken skin.

In spite of his best efforts to stay cool, Dean's chest heaves in and out. His face stings as he fights back tears.

"You're doing very well. Now, don't move." Ketch scrapes all the way to the tip, painting slow stripe after stripe until Dean begins to get hard. "Isn't that lovely?"

A tear slips from the corner of Dean's eye. "Kill you."

Ketch's lips part and he licks the curling corner of his mouth. "You know, I could make that request," he says breathily. "Would you like that?"

"Fuck off."

"Yes. I agree. I'll just place a call then." Ketch moves to the bedside table, picks up the phone and asks for fresh towels.

"Remember, keep still. We wouldn't want any accidents." He traces the blade over Dean's lower lip, then the top, leaving a trail of cold heat in its wake.

Ketch's tongue parts his mouth, brow wrinkled in slope of his jaw is familiar, like maybe Dean's seen it in the mirror.

"Housekeeping."

Dean jumps at the knock on the door and the blade slips, only slightly.

Ketch tuts. "Apologies." He leans forward and gently sucks the bead of blood from the corner of Dean's mouth.

He crosses the room and opens the door for the maid who enters with a bundle of towels folded in her arm.

"Perfect. Thank you."

The woman's eyes pop open when she sees Dean. Ketch smiles. "Gorgeous. I know."

"Help me." As Dean mouths the words, Ketch holds some sort of silver bowl below her chin and slits her throat with the same blade he's been using all along.

Dean gasps, stomach churning sour as the maid bleeds out. Her body crumples to the floor. Ketch speaks directly to the bowl of blood.

"Yes, sir. Everything's perfect, sir… No, of course not. No trouble at all… He's rather a dear... Still waiting… If I may, sir. I just wanted to request additional permission… Yes, sir. Very much, sir…. That is an excellent idea, sir. Gladly. Thank you again, sir." He flashes a toothy, reptilian smile and begins to loosen his belt. "Fantastic news, pumpkin. I'm allowed to fuck you now, as well as when she arrives-for her benefit of course. I'd say fortuitous for us all."

Dean scrambles uselessly, causing no more disruption than the clanking of his cuffs and the furious rustling of the plastic beneath his body. It's stuck to the sweat on his back, but otherwise, there's no change in his predicament other than his heart trying to slam its way out of his chest. "Listen…"

A knock at the door interrupts whatever he was going to say to try and buy some time. Ketch's grin never falters. "Ah. Suppose that means it's show time. You don't mind an audience, do you?"

The moment Ketch begins to open the door, before he can even see who is there, Dean yells, "RUN! Get out of here! This guy is fucking crazy!"

Ketch steps out of the way to make space for Jody to enter.

"NO! No no no! You leave her alone." He fights so hard against the shackles that his wrists and ankles begin to bleed. "I swear to God, you touch her, I will fucking end you!"

Ketch chuckles over his shoulder. "So feisty." He spreads his arms and folds Jody to his chest in a warm, familiar embrace. "Princess Josephine." He takes her shoulders in his hands and bends down to look directly into her face. "Wonderful to see you."

Dean's mother looks over at him, lips pursed, head tilted, eyebrows gathered in what could be contemplation, disgust or something else entirely. She breathes deeply before she asks Ketch, "How'd you find him?"

She's speaking with a British accent, too, and Dean's head is about to explode.

Ketch's shoulders shake with laughter as he pats her cheek. "You were always so precious. Do you think there was a single moment when your father didn't know precisely where you had him?"

Her eyes narrow and Dean recognizes the anger on her face and in her voice. "Then why… why did you not just bring us back the moment I ran?"

Ketch shrugs. "Entertainment? No one's ever had the audacity to steal from your father before. You intrigued him. And I must say, your shenanigans have been very interesting to watch these sixteen some odd years. Far better than prime time television. And every now and again, he'd have me say 'Boo,' just to keep it funny."

Jody sinks into a chair, staring at the floor.

"Oh, don't be sad, princess. He's not even really angry with you. Chalks it all up to a tantrum. All he wants is for me to break your dolly and bring you home." He leans forward to whisper loudly, "I'm allowed to fuck it." He rubs his hands together and licks his lips. "Then I get to play."

"Don't." Her eyes snap up to him. "If you have to… finish him, Arthur, for God's sake, do it quickly."

Dean's heart hasn't truly let up pounding in his ears since he came to. Now, though, it comes to a stand-still and ice spreads over his flesh as his mother pronounces his death sentence to this freak.

Ketch shudders visibly when she swears. "Ugh. You have been up here too long. The filth you speak. But no, dear. I've got orders."

He removes his gloves, places them and his belt on the table with all his Dark Side Dentist equipment. Finally, when his back is turned to her, Jody meets Dean's eyes. She brings a finger to her lips and nods.

"None of this is his fault, Arthur."

"Nor is it mine." Ketch begins to unbutton his shirt. "You know he can't just let you get away with this without some consequence. You have to admit, watching this one suffer seems fair." He pulls off the shirt and drapes it carefully over his jacket. "I suggested a meat market, since he's so delectable, and your father took me quite literally."

Laughing, he taps on a piece of paper out of Dean's line of sight. Jody takes one look at it, shuts her eyes and shakes her head before she lowers it.

Ketch clears his throat to get her attention. "You're meant to watch. All of it. Now, what position do you favor? I'm rather partial to canine coupling." As he steps out of his boxers, his face contorts in pain.

He shudders and turns his eyes to Jody. She's muttering like a mad woman. It's probably not even a real language she's murmuring, but it's sure making Ketch uncomfortable. Her, too. They both shake and grimace like they're in agony.

Ketch smacks her hard with the back of his hand and her shouting stops. "You fool."

"Don't you touch her!" Dean tenses against his shackles.

Neither of them seems concerned with him.

"Behave." Ketch stretches a length of black tape over her mouth. "I don't want to have to explain to your father why I had to hurt you. You know he doesn't look kindly on that sort of thing. We're meant to save the violence for them, but I will claim self-defense and he'll understand."

He nods at something on the table. Jody's eyes follow his and she nods, a tear slipping over the tape.

"Now… " Ketch begins to stroke himself and returns his attention to Dean. He moves to the end of the bed, and his greedy eyes travel the length of Dean's body. "Relax and enjoy yourself, Josephine. You've done a lovely job. Look at this as the culmination of your work. I understand some girls find a bit of boy on boy action rather alluring."

Ketch removes one of the cuffs from Dean's ankles. The firm kick to the jaw only knocks his grin back into place. He spits a glob of blood onto Dean's crotch. "You don't need to behave, pumpkin. In fact, it's a lot more fun if you don't."

There's a flicker of motion in the corner of Dean's eye. Everything happens so swiftly he can hardly make sense of it.

Jody snatches some sort of strange triangular prism blade from Ketch's tools and jabs it up into the soft spot below his jaw. A lightning storm goes off under his skin, crackling, flashing bright. Then a thin plume of black smoke slips through his lips and flies up through the air vent. Dean thinks of that thing from Lost and immediately vows to watch less television. Ketch falls forward onto his legs. With his one free foot, Dean kicks what's left of the bastard to the floor.

Jody rips the tape from her mouth; unshackles all but one of Dean's hands. She watches with a sad look on her face as he unlocks the final cuff himself. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't have time to explain," she says, sounding like a proper American again. "I'm sorry for everything. If I can fix it, I will."

"What the fuck, Jody?"

He's examining his mangled wrists when another crack of lightning makes him look up in time to see his mother fall to her knees. The hilt of the blade juts out of her chest. Her skin sizzles and fizzes the same as Ketch's had done. For a moment, her expression is sorrow and regret. Then her mouth opens wide and black smoke flies from her mouth, following the same path out of the building.

Dean kneels beside her body. His hand hovers over her for a long time before he lowers it to her face and wipes back the hair hiding her open eyes.

'Mom?' He breathes the word, unable to find his voice.

She's gone. He knows without needing to touch her. And she's raised him well enough to not stay at a crime scene, even if it's not his crime.

There could even be more of whatever Ketch was. Whatever his mother (Josephine?) was. Whatever that makes Dean.

He uses the bed to help him stand. His clothes are nowhere to be found. That piece of paper on the table shows a diagram for butchering a pig. Dean chokes back the vomit that fills his throat. Then he lets it out, all over Ketch's tools.

He stumbles across the room, picks up the phone in his trembling hand and dials the only number he's ever learned by heart.


End file.
